I woke up on my 97th birthday to silence—no calls, no messages. Just me, a small cake, and a chair by the window above the old hardware store.
I hadn’t heard from my son Eliot in five years—not since an argument about his wife. I sent a photo of the cake to his old number: “Happy birthday to me.” No reply.
Later, a knock.
A young woman stood there. “Are you Mr. L? I’m Nora—Eliot’s daughter.”
She’d seen my message on his phone and came with a sandwich—my favorite. We shared cake and stories. Before leaving, she asked if she could visit again. I said she’d better.
The next day, a message from Eliot: Is she okay?
I replied: She’s wonderful.
Soon, another knock. Eliot.
We didn’t fix everything that day. But we started.
Love finds a way—sometimes in silence, sometimes in a knock.
