The girl behind the counter smiled like she didn’t recognize me, even though I come in every week for day-old bread. I told her, “Today’s my birthday,” and she said, “Oh, happy birthday,” like she was reading it off a cue card.

I bought a small cake. Vanilla with strawberries. I even had them write “Happy 97th, Mr. L.” on it. Felt silly asking for it, but I did.

Back in my room, I set it on the crate I use as a table. Lit a single candle. Sat down, and waited.

I don’t know why I expected anyone to come. My son, Eliot, hasn’t called in five years. Last time we spoke, I said something about how his wife talked down to me. Maybe I shouldn’t have. He hung up, and that was that. No calls, no visits. I don’t