It was 10:00 at night.

Han was looking for the lighter, and his wife, Ida, was silently expressing her frustration as to not ruin their son’s good mood. Erik sat in his chair at the head of the kitchen table, eyes glowing with anticipation. A cupcake with a single wax candle planted in its center sat on a plate in front of him.

“Where’s the lighter?” Ida said, a playful edge to her voice. 

Han closed the drawer again, the same drawer he searched through just a minute ago. He bit his lip, mildly flustered. “It should be in here…”

Ida shook her head and turned to their son. She flashed him a smile. “Sit tight for just a moment, dear.” To Han: “I told you to get everything ready beforehand.”

“I swear I put it somewhere around here,” he responded. He reached into the cupboard above the oven. 

There it was, a little metal box lying on its side. Han grabbed it eagerly, relieved.

“Found it. I don’t use it all that often, you know. Not since last year.”

Ida sighed, chuckling softly. “Sure, sure. Now get over there and light your son’s birthday candle.”

Han walked over to the kitchen table, not a far distance in the confines of their apartment. Erik shuffled in his seat, grinning from ear to ear. Han lit the wick, his green eyes flickering in the soft candlelight. Ida took her place in the seat next to Erik, tying back her hair so there would be no potential accident. 

“Ready Erik?” she asked, fanning his excitement. She looked at Han, who smiled back at her. 

Ida and Han took a collective breath. Before they could start singing, the air raid sirens across Oslo wailed and howled. They both knew exactly what this meant, but they had already reached an agreement. There would be no desperate fleeing.

“What’s that, Ma?” Erik asked. His grin was still plastered across his face, to the relief of his parents.  

Ida put her hands on Erik’s slight shoulders, leaning closer to his ear so he could hear over the sirens. He was a spitting image of his father: lean, lanky, gentle green eyes and fair-skinned. “It’s your day, Erik. We don’t have time to worry about anything else.”

Han’s smile thinned, but he bit his lip to keep it together. “That’s right.” 

And so, they began to sing:

Hurra for deg som fyller ditt år!

Ja, deg vil vi gratulere!

Alle i ring omkring deg vi står,

 The whistling in the sky started as they sang. Ida held her son’s face and locked eyes with him before he could turn and look. Tears sprung into her eyes, but she managed a smile before continuing.

og se, nå vil vi marsjere,

bukke, nikke, neie, snu oss omkring,

danse for deg med hopp og sprett og spring,

They faltered at the crash of an explosion. The plate rattled, the apartment shook. Ida held Erik’s face closer. Erik began to sob, so she wrapped him in his arms and squeezed him as tightly as she could. Seeing her son cry shattered her heart.

ønske deg av hjertet alle gode ting!

Og si meg så, hva vil du mere?

Another blast ripped through the air, lighting up the night. The flame wobbled and wavered as more bombs dropped, bang after bang rolling through the streets. Han got up from his chair and joined his wife and son. He took a deep breath and shouted the last word, hoping to drown out the sirens and whistling and explosions for even a moment.

Gratulere!

“Make a wish, Erik,” Ida said, trying her best to keep her voice from breaking. 

Erik blew out the candle. The three of them held onto each other, sirens wailing, bombs dropping from all directions, fearing the moment they would have to let go. This was their decision, no one else’s. Their final moments as a family would not be stolen from them. 

“Happy birthday,” Han said. He planted one last kiss on his son’s forehead. This is how he would go, with his entire world tucked between his arms. 

He wouldn’t have it any other way.