Anna Svensson

As the morning light filters through the lace curtains, I take a moment to savor the quiet before the day begins. The aroma of freshly baked Kanelbullar fills the kitchen, a scent that never fails to bring me joy. My brother Mikael will be here soon, along with the rest of the family, for our weekly Sunday fika.

My earliest memories from Sweden are a blend of love and loss, of Mikael and me clinging to each other after our parents were killed in the final year of the war. The orphanage was bleak, but the foster farm was worse, where we were nothing more than free labor, punished for the smallest mistakes. Mikael was my rock, and together we whispered dreams of a better future.

When our foster mother died and our foster father no longer wanted us, it was the break we needed. We finally went to school, a chance to be children, to learn, and to play. From there, life gradually improved. We made friends, attended a state-funded boarding school, and eventually, both of us found solid vocational paths.

Today, I am the proud mother of five, grandmother of eight, and great-grandmother of two. At 86, I can look back with a sense of accomplishment and gratitude. Mikael lives in the neighboring village, and we remain as close as ever. Our Sunday gatherings are a cherished tradition, a time for laughter, stories, and enjoying my homemade cinnamon buns.

As I set the table for our fika, I feel a deep sense of contentment. The children and grandchildren will soon fill this house with their chatter and laughter, the sound of a family that has grown strong and loving despite the hardships of the past. Our parents would be proud, I think, and I am immensely grateful for the resilience that brought us here.