Marija Bosko leaned in like a general about to unveil a battle plan, her eyes sharp, her voice sweet but immovable.

“Annie, dušo,” she said, patting her arm, “listen to me now. Tony DeMelo—this boy has had his heart broken twice. Twice! Both times by Croatian girls. Too proud, too dramatic, always testing God and fate.”

Annie laughed nervously. “That sounds… complicated.”

Marija waved her hand. “Life is complicated. Love is baseball. You know baseball?”

Annie smiled. “I know baseball.”

“Good. Then you know this,” Marija said, tapping the table for emphasis. “First strike. Second strike. And the third time—home run. Tony is due. God is fair.”

She softened, almost sentimental.
“He’s a good boy. Works hard. Strong shoulders. Sad eyes, but honest. The kind of man who just needs the right woman to sit him down and say: Enough suffering now.”

Marija looked Annie up and down, frowned slightly, and reached for the pot on the stove.

“But first—eat,” she commanded, scooping sarma onto Annie’s plate. “You are too thin. How will you survive love like this on air and salad?”

Annie protested, “Marija, I just ate—”

“Nonsense,” Marija cut in. “Sarma is not food, it is medicine. For strength. For hips. For marriage.”

She slid the plate closer.
“You eat. You meet Tony. He hits a home run. Everyone wins.”

Marija crossed herself once, satisfied.
“Now eat before it gets cold. Love waits for no one—but sarma waits even less.”