A simple Swedish birthday custom enraged my wife, who asked that Linnea, our exchange student, leave immediately. Our luck changed the next day, and we needed Linnea’s support. Would she save her enemies?
Our household had changed since Linnea, our Swedish exchange student, arrived last summer. All host families want kids like her—bright, gentle, eager to learn, and polite to a fault. Anyone who has welcomed someone from a different culture understands that small distinctions can surprise you.
That Tuesday morning began normally. Janet, my wife, was frying her renowned blueberry pancakes in the kitchen while our kids, Caleb, 13, and Sophie, 10, fought over the final glass of orange juice.
But this Tuesday was different. Linnea turned sixteen.
We went all out—streamers, balloons, a small mound of presents on the counter. Sophie demanded a glittering gold-lettered “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banner. We wanted Linnea to feel special despite being thousands of miles from her family.
A sound of footfall on the stairs made everyone seem nonchalant. Linnea entered the doorway, her long blond hair tousled from sleep and her blue eyes widening at the decorations.
“Oh my goodness!” she screamed, her Swedish accent heightened by excitement. “This is excessive!”
Janet smiled as she placed pancakes on the table. Nothing’s too much for our birthday princess. Sat down. Presents after breakfast, then phone family.”
Linnea sat at the table with Caleb and Sophie, blushing and happy. In two months, she went from shy newcomer to part of our normal routine. Sometimes it felt like she was constantly there.
After breakfast, we gave her books, a hoodie, and a framed photo of her and the kids at the lake, then gathered around as she FaceTimed her family in Sweden.
Her parents and siblings sang a long, joyful Swedish birthday song when they came on-screen. Strange, looping, repeating song made everyone chuckle in our kitchen and across the Atlantic.
I couldn’t comprehend, but Linnea’s face brightened up.
“Stop it!” she laughed, going pink. “You’re embarrassing!”
Her younger brother entered and did a silly dance, making her sigh. “Anders, you’re the worst!”
After the song, we sang “Happy Birthday” in English. Linnea was left alone to chat to her family as I checked our storm supplies in the garage. Local news advised people to brace for a terrible coastal system.
She looked into the garage while I counted batteries. She wore a new top and tied her hair back.
“Do you need help, Mr. Daniel?” she respectfully asked.
“Sure, kid. Want to try these flashlights? Switch them on and off.”
As she examined them, I inquired, “So what was that song about?” Sounds funny.”
Linnea smiled. “That’s silly tradition. After 100, lyrics say, ‘shoot you, hang you, drown you.’ As a joke, not serious.”
Janet raced into the garage like a thundercloud before I could answer. “What did you say?”
Linnea froze, dropping the flashlight. “The birthday song… Just—”
“Just m.0.cking d.e.a.th? Making fun of seniors? Janet spoke sharply, going red. “How dare you disrespect our home!”
I came forward swiftly. “Honey, it’s cultural—”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Daniel!” Janet’s eyes burned. My father was sixty when I was born. I watched him deteriorate for years. What’s it like? Now you’re singing about k.1.lling old people?
Her face went ghostly white. I’m sorry, Mrs. Lawson. I didn’t mean—”
“Pack up.” Cold as steel, Janet spoke. “I want you out before the storm closes the airports.”
I was astonished by her. You can’t be serious, Janet. She’s a kid—it’s her birthday!”
But my wife had already stormed upstairs, slamming the bedroom door.
Crushing quiet followed. Linnea shaking, tears forming.
The next 24 hours were hell. Linnea only left her room to use the bathroom. I found her on her bed with half-packed suitcases when I served her dinner.
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she muttered, folding a shirt. “Dying isn’t scary in Sweden. We occasionally laugh about it.”
Sat gently on her bed’s edge. “I know, kid. Janet is still grieving. Four years ago, her dad died before his ninety-seventh birthday. He had her there.”
The hands of Linnea froze. “I didn’t know.”
“She doesn’t talk about it much,” I said. Please allow her time. She’ll appear.”
Time wasn’t our friend.
The storm hit hard the next morning. Winds howled like a train as rain pelted the roof. After flickering, the lights turned off.
The phone rang then. Janet answered, her face drab. “Mom? Stay calm—we’re coming.”
Her mother Helen lived alone a few blocks away. We had to bring her home before things worsened.
“I’ll drive,” I responded, taking my keys.
“The roads will be flooded,” Janet protested. “We must walk. However, we cannot abandon the kids.”
Linnea arrived in rain gear. “I can help,” she whispered.
Janet paused, then nodded. “Fine. Without you, we cannot.”
The stroll hurt. Rain burned our faces, and wind nearly knocked us over. When we arrived at Helen’s place, she was relaxing in her armchair.
“Oh, honestly,” she exclaimed seeing us. “I would’ve been fine.” Shaky hands told a different narrative.
With no hesitation, Linnea joined her. “Let me help you, Mrs. Helen.” She expertly helped the older woman into her jacket.
“You’ve done this before,” I said.
Linnea nods. “Back home, I volunteered at an elderly care center.”
Linnea held Helen against the wind with her umbrella on the way back. Janet was staring at them, expressionless.
We ate cold sandwiches by candlelight in the living room for dinner. The room was quiet until Helen spoke as the storm howled outside.
“Melissa,” she confidently called Janet by her full name, like mothers do. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Janet mumbled.
No, you’re not.” Helen grabbed her daughter’s hand across the table. “You’re scared. As you were when your father was sick.”
Janet cried.
“You remember what your father said about death?” Helen spoke softly. He named it his last birthday party. Everyone gets one—so laugh about it while you can.”
Janet sobbed. “He was too young, Mom. Ninety-six is too young.”
“Maybe,” Helen stated softly. “But he lived fully every year. He wouldn’t want you to fear a ridiculous tune.”
Plate-holding Linnea paused mid-step across the room. Janet raised her eyes.
Janet muttered, “I’m so sorry, Linnea. “I’ve slandered you.”
Linnea shook her head swiftly. “No, I should have clarified.”
Will you stay? The voice broke when Janet asked. “Please?”
As Linnea nodded, tears sparkled.
Although the storm outside continued, the one inside our home eased. I learned something crucial watching Janet embrace Linnea while Helen smiled: sometimes the hardest storms expose our strongest qualities.
Sometimes a bizarre birthday song from halfway around the world can teach you more about life, death, and forgiveness than you thought.
Later that night, Linnea taught us the Swedish birthday song. We laughed at the weird words as we sang it by candlelight.
Janet laughed too. Especially Janet.
