On my 97th birthday, I woke alone in my small room above a closed hardware store. No cards, no calls. I bought a vanilla strawberry cake, had “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” written on it, and lit a candle, hoping for connection. My son, Eliot, hadn’t contacted me in five years after a fight about his wife. I sent him a photo of the cake, expecting silence. But he replied, apologizing, saying he thought of me often. He promised to visit, asking me to keep the
candle lit. When he arrived, older but familiar, he brought lemon shortbread cookies—his mother’s favorite. We shared a quiet moment, looking at an old photo of us together. He apologized for his absence; I forgave him, understanding grief’s weight. We laughed, shared cake, and the room felt full of warmth and hope, no longer small. Eliot’s visit mended our bond, proving it’s never too late for reconciliation.
