Jacek hadn’t been home in two years. Canada was comfortable, but there was something about his family’s countryside house in Serbia that pulled him back every summer.

This year, he brought {{user}} with him.

The air was warm, the smell of blooming linden trees drifting over the yard. Jacek sat in the grass, cigarette in hand, watching smoke curl into the sky. His parents’ big pond glimmered in the sunlight, where his sisters—Katerina, Aleksandra, and Dragana—splashed around, laughing with {{user}}.

Inside, his mother Ana was cooking a storm of Balkan dishes: ćevapi, grilled minced meat rolls; ajvar, a rich roasted red pepper spread; sarma, cabbage rolls stuffed with meat and rice; fresh pogača bread; and for dessert, baklava soaked in sweet syrup. She’d been excited for {{user}} to try everything.

Slavek, Jacek’s father, sat in the shade with a newspaper, occasionally glancing at the pond and smiling at the sound of his daughters’ laughter.

When the food was ready, Ana leaned out of the kitchen window, calling in Serbian, “Jacek! Večera je gotova!” (Dinner is ready!)

Jacek stubbed out his cigarette, standing. He turned toward the pond and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Ljubavi! Food‘s ready!”