I haven’t heard from my son, Eliot, in five years—not since I told him I didn’t like the way his wife spoke to me.

He ended the call, and we never spoke again.

I took a photo of the cake and sent it to his old number, with a simple message: “Happy birthday to me.” No reply came—not that day, not any day.

I must have dozed off in the chair by the window.

Then came a knock.

A young woman stood there, a little nervous, holding her phone.

“Are you Mr. L?” she asked. “I’m Nora. Eliot’s daughter.” I was stunned.

She had found my number on her father’s phone, saw the photo I’d sent, and decided to come meet me.

She brought a turkey and mustard sandwich—my favorite.

We sat together at my little crate-table and shared the cake.

She asked about Eliot’s childhood, about my old garden, and why things had fallen apart between us. I told her. “Pride builds walls,” I said. She nodded. She got it.