My Wife Kicked Our Foreign Exchange Student Out Because of Her Swedish Tradition – Karma Hit Hard the Next Day

Nothing had been normal since Brigitte came to stay with us last summer. Don’t get me wrong, she was a great kid, the kind of exchange student every host family dreams of getting.

But sometimes cultural differences have a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it.

The morning started normally enough. My wife Melissa was making her famous blueberry pancakes while our two kids, Tommy and Sarah, bickered over the last orange juice.

Just another Tuesday in our household. Except it wasn’t just another Tuesday — it was Brigitte’s 16th birthday.

We heard footsteps on the stairs, and everyone scrambled to look casual. Brigitte appeared in the doorway, her long blonde hair still messy from sleep. Her eyes widened as she took in the kitchen, now festooned with enough balloons and streamers to supply a small circus.

“Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed, her Swedish accent more pronounced in her excitement. “This is… this is too much!”

Melissa beamed, setting a stack of pancakes on the table. “Nothing’s too much for our birthday girl. Come on, sit down. We’ve got presents after breakfast, and then you can call your family.”

I watched as Brigitte settled into her chair, looking both embarrassed and delighted by all the attention. It was hard to believe she’d only been with us for two months. Sometimes, it felt like she’d always been part of our family.

After breakfast and presents, we gathered around as Brigitte FaceTimed her family back in Sweden. As soon as her parents and siblings appeared on screen, they burst into song — some long, repetitive tune in Swedish that had everyone on both sides of the Atlantic laughing.

I didn’t understand a word, but Brigitte’s face lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

“Oh my god, stop!” she giggled, her cheeks turning pink. “You’re so embarrassing!”

Her little brother added some sort of dance move that made Brigitte groan and cover her face. “Magnus, you’re the worst!”

After the song ended and we’d all wished her happy birthday (in English and Swedish), we gave her some privacy to catch up with her family.

I headed to the garage to check our emergency supplies. The weather channel had issued a warning about a nasty storm heading our way.

“Hey, Mr. Gary?” Brigitte appeared in the doorway as I was counting the batteries. Her hair was pulled back now, and she’d changed into one of the t-shirts she’d gotten for her birthday. “Do you need help?”

“Thanks, kiddo.” I gestured at the pile of flashlights I was testing. “Actually, could you check these? Just click each one on and off.” As she started checking, I asked, “Say, what was that song about? Sounded pretty funny.”

She grinned, clicking through the flashlights.

“Oh, it’s this silly tradition. After you turn 100, the song talks about shooting you, hanging you, drowning you, stuff like that. It’s supposed to be funny, you know?”

Before I could respond, Melissa burst through the door like a tornado in yoga pants. “What did you just say?”

The flashlight in Brigitte’s hand clattered to the floor. “The birthday song?” Her smile faltered. “It’s just—”

“Just mocking death? Making fun of elderly people?” Melissa’s voice rose with each word, her face flushing red. “How dare you bring that kind of disrespect into our home!”

I tried to intervene, stepping between them. “Honey, it’s just a cultural thing—”

“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Gary!” Melissa’s eyes were blazing now, and I could see tears starting to form at the corners. “My father was 60 when I was born. Do you know what it’s like watching someone you love get old and sick? And you’re singing songs about killing old people?”

Brigitte’s face had gone from pink to ghost-white. “Ma, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Pack your things.” Melissa’s voice was ice-cold, each word dropping like a stone in the suddenly silent garage.

“I want you out of this house before the airports shut down for the storm.”

“Melissa!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You can’t be serious. She’s just a kid, and it’s her birthday!”

But Melissa was already storming back into the house, leaving Brigitte in tears and the rest of us in shocked silence. Through the open door, we could hear her stomping up the stairs, followed by the slam of her bedroom door.

The next 24 hours were like walking on eggshells in a minefield. Brigitte stayed in her room, only coming out to use the bathroom. When I brought her dinner, I found her sitting on her bed, surrounded by half-packed suitcases.

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” she whispered, not looking up from the shirt she was folding. “In Sweden, we don’t… death isn’t such a scary thing. We joke about it sometimes.”

I sat down on the edge of her bed, careful not to disturb her meticulous packing.

“I know, kiddo. Melissa… she’s still dealing with losing her dad. He passed away four years ago, just shy of his 97th birthday. She was there when it happened.”

Brigitte’s hands stilled on the shirt. “I didn’t know.”

“She doesn’t talk about it much.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Look, just give her some time. She’ll come around.”

But time wasn’t on our side. The storm hit the next morning with a vengeance.

It started with a few drops, then the sky opened up like somebody upstairs had turned on a fire hose. The wind howled like a freight train, and our power flickered once, twice, and then died completely. That’s when the phone rang.

Melissa answered it, and I saw her face change completely. “Mom?” Her voice was tight with worry. “Okay, stay calm. We’re coming to get you.”

Helen, Melissa’s mother, lived alone in a small house a few blocks away. With the storm getting worse by the minute, we needed to bring her to our place.

I grabbed my raincoat and car keys, but Melissa stopped me.

“The road to Mom’s is probably flooded by now. We need to walk, but it’s dangerous for us to go alone, and I don’t want to leave either of the kids here by themself.”

As if on cue, Brigitte appeared at the bottom of the stairs, fully dressed in her rain gear. “I can help,” she said quietly.

Melissa looked like she wanted to object, but another crack of thunder made her decision for her. “Fine. We can’t do it without you. Let’s go.”

The walk to Helen’s was like something out of an apocalypse movie.

The rain stung our faces, and the wind nearly knocked us off our feet more than once. When we finally reached Helen’s house, we found her sitting in her armchair, calm as could be.

“Oh, honestly,” she said when she saw us, adjusting her glasses. “I would have been fine.”

But her hands shook as she tried to stand, and I noticed Brigitte immediately moving to help her. The girl’s movements were confident and practiced like she’d done this a hundred times before.

“In Sweden,” Brigitte explained as she helped Helen into her raincoat, “I volunteered at an elderly care center. Let me carry your bag, Mrs. Helen.”

The walk back was even worse, but Brigitte never left Helen’s side, shielding her from the wind and matching her pace perfectly. I could see Melissa watching, her expression unreadable in the gloom of the storm.

By dinnertime, we were all huddled in the living room, eating cold sandwiches by candlelight. The silence was deafening until Helen cleared her throat.

“Melissa,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

Melissa pushed her sandwich around her plate. “I’m fine, Mom.”

“No, you’re not.” Helen reached across the table and took her daughter’s hand. “You’re scared. Just like you were when your father was sick.”

The room grew even quieter if that was possible. Melissa’s eyes filled with tears.

“You know what your father used to say about death?” Helen continued, her voice warm with memory. “He said it was like a birthday party: everyone gets one eventually, so you might as well laugh about it while you can.”

A sob escaped Melissa’s throat. “He was too young, Mom. Ninety-six is too young.”

“Maybe,” Helen agreed, squeezing her daughter’s hand. “But he lived every one of those years to the fullest. And he wouldn’t want you to be afraid of a silly birthday song.”

Brigitte, who had been quietly helping Tommy clean up the dinner plates, stopped in her tracks. Melissa looked up at her.

“I’m so sorry, Brigitte,” Melissa whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ve been… I’ve been awful to you.”

Brigitte shook her head, her own eyes glistening in the candlelight. “No, I’m sorry. I should have explained better.”

“Will you…” Melissa took a deep breath. “Will you stay? Please?”

And just like that, the storm inside our house began to calm, even as the one outside raged on. As I watched Brigitte and Melissa hug, with Helen beaming beside them, I realized something important: sometimes, the worst storms bring out the best in people.

And sometimes, a silly Swedish birthday song can teach you more about life and death than you ever thought possible.

Later that night, as we all sat together in the candlelight, Brigitte taught us the birthday song. And you know what? We all laughed. Even Melissa. Especially Melissa.

Here’s another story: The music I played on my piano was my last link to my late husband. But cruel neighbors shattered that joy with a hurtful message on my wall. When my granddaughter found out, she made things right, leaving those entitled neighbors scratching their heads. Click here to keep reading.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.