The year of Henry's first birthday, Germany decided to invade Poland. But we decided, for now, not to let the fact eclipse the event.
It was a small thing, just close friends and family.
My mother baked the cake herself, spending the early hours of the morning decorating her jam sponge. Henry liked the taste of strawberry jam, but when it came to lemon cakes, he would wrinkle nose in disgust and turn away.
I don't think Henry knew what was happening, but nonetheless he was delighted by the brightly coloured balloons and party decorations. As people fawned over him, ruffling his brown hair and scooping him up into their arms, he fidgeted and giggled.
You gave him an old stuffed bear. It held nothing but sentimental value. The eyes were mismatched buttons and there were rows of stitches where limbs had fallen off and were sewn back on. The bear's smile was crooked, the thread which formed its mouth fraying at the edges.
"It's been in my family for years," you explained quietly that night. We were in Henry's room, watching the steady rise and fall of his tiny chest as he slept, his left hand clutching the bear's paw. He was exhausted after such a long day. "It belonged to my grandfather, and then my father, and me, and now it belongs to Henry."
