What I wrote is about the concept of 'porodica.' Even though this word means 'family' in Serbian, it has a much deeper meaning. This will explain what 'porodica' means better than any textbook could.

This tells of the lives that shaped me: people fractured by abuse and neglect, strangers who became my closest kin in the darkest of times, and individuals discarded by society. These people are more than mere family to me, they make up my 'porodica.' We are not bound by blood or legal commitments, but rather by choice, love, loyalty, sacrifice, and the shared suffering we have endured.

Although this revolves around the concept of 'porodica' and how very broken people can be mended into something strong and resilient, I also wrote it for myself to remember those I have lost and to remind me of who I was and who I am now.

Be warned: Although this contains no graphic blood or gore, it is filled with unflinching and overwhelming accounts of profound trauma. This is an extremely difficult read. Some parts are extremely disturbing even without details, but none of this is for shock value, it is necessary.

Yugoslavia had been a very rich country for a long time. Being born in 1973, I missed out on that as Yugoslavia's richness was fading away as I was growing up. Still, Yugoslavia was more prosperous than many countries and my family was affluent. From a modern American perspective, I certainly grew up upper middle class.

Yugoslavia was home to many different ethnic and religious groups, including Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks. Serbs were mostly Orthodox Christians, Croats were largely Catholic, and Bosniaks were predominantly Muslim. While everyone lived in the same country, people generally kept to themselves, forming separate communities based on their culture and religion. This separation had existed for centuries, and there was always some tension between us, though most of the time everyone got along. Yugoslavia was much like a large prison where the prisoners self segregate by choice and the guards kept the peace.

President Josip Tito was our prison warden since right after World War II. He was a strong leader and tried to be fair. When he died in 1980, political leaders of the different ethnic territories saw an opportunity to separate and become independent countries, and they would then become powerful presidents. The common people heard the political rhetoric about the other side marginalizing them, erasing them from history, or stealing their money. The leaders amplified every tension between the sides that they could, even ones from centuries past. Throughout the 1980s, the economy worsened daily as leaders blamed each other for the nation’s misery. I think some of the hardship was self-inflicted, but as a kid, what did I know about such things?

My family had a relatively normal life all things considered, it was a typical Serbian household in an affluent area. Our country, however, was in decline, with hyperinflation and groups hating each other but I could have grown up much worse.

My mother, Nadia, was a strong Serbian woman who ran the house. I wish I had more to share but she died while I was young and my father never had another. I remember things about her, but what stands out most is her clothes. It is strange that I remembered her clothes more than anything else, but that is all I have, other than the fact that she was an exceptional cook and only sang while cooking. My mother has or at least had a grave which I visited often as a child. I thought of her fondly then, and still do.

My father, Filip, was a proud man who ran the household. There was a stern love that he sometimes shared with us. His role as head of the house revolved around discipline and respect for all elders. He taught me many things, and I proudly called him father. Although he was never a soldier, he considered himself more of a politician.

My father was very political. Most people today would not understand the politics back then, but it was neither communism nor socialism nor ancient Rome's version. Back then, everyone, including myself, believed that one-party rule allowed the party to decide what was best for the people. My father was so political that he had a picture of our president to the left of our television. Even after president Tito died in 1980, that picture remained proudly displayed for all to see. For my father, it did not matter whether I watched President Tito's picture or watched the TV. That is how very political my father was. He was never in a position to be a president but I think he would have wanted to have every family room in Yugoslavia watch a picture of my father on their wall.

The older Serbs that I personally knew, loved president Tito. Much of the world did as well, as he was very charismatic. He was a commoner who became a war hero fighting the Nazis and then became president. We were a neutral country so he told the USSR, 'thanks but no thanks,' and did the same to NATO. He died when I was 7 years old but I heard both good and bad about him. To my father and his friends, he was a true hero, therefore he was also my hero. No one could argue that president Tito was the only leader who could hold us all together, and he did so for several decades.

For Serbs in my time, religion was everything. It was the same for the other ethnic groups in what was once Yugoslavia. In my father's household, we were not religious, but outside our home, we followed Eastern Orthodox Christianity. That was his rule when we stepped outside the door. Our ethnicity was not solely defined by religion, we (Serbs) were different from 'the others' in many ways.

In our area, Serbs were the only group that mattered, all others were considered 'the others' and seen as less than us. Most of Yugoslavia was like this, with different groups clustering together in vast sections of their land. This was not the case everywhere, especially not in cities where ethnic groups mixed, but in the areas where we lived, there was a clear division. Who you were meant everything.

Although I did not hate 'the others,' I certainly distrusted them. It was like when my father and I went to Austria, I am certain the Austrians did not hate us but they certainly distrusted us. At some point for all of Yugoslavia, that distrust changed to hatred. The last time we went to any city was in 1988. We were isolated but constantly saw riots and fighting fueled by political rhetoric on television. My father kept up with it while I attended school and did household chores.

Fortunately, I graduated from a very good secondary school (high school) just before the first civil wars began in 1991. However, attending university and becoming a famous newspaper photographer in Belgrade was never going to happen. My father wanted me close by, and that is what I did. He and his friends were concerned that something big might happen at any moment because two territories wanted to break away from Yugoslavia. My father feared one of those territories might use terrorism against the Belgrade university I was to attend, but I did not think terrorists would. I certainly would not argue with him, even at 18. Sons do not argue with parental authority.

When the first civil war started, everything changed due to a decade of rhetoric by the political leaders. In many places, your ethnic background determined your fate. Where we lived, it was safe, however, around us, one's ethnic-religious identity often meant either safe passage or harassment for civilians. We knew of families who had lived in their homes for generations and did not want to leave simply because another group wanted their land. These families were forcibly displaced and relocated somewhere else where they could live safely with 'their own kind.'

Human nature being what it is, simply displacing people quickly devolved. As rumors spread that one side was killing civilians during their forced relocations, the other side responded with the same. This devolved into the concept of 'ethnic cleansing.' Take over someone else’s scrap of land and cleanse it by erasing any physical evidence of the previous occupants, both people and cultural items.

Why 'ethnically cleanse' civilians instead of just pushing them out? It all started with the simmering hatred between Eastern Orthodox Christians, Catholics, and Muslims, fueled by non-stop political rhetoric portraying the other side and everything the other side stood for as pure evil. This hatred was further justified by the belief that if the other side did it to us, we must do the same to them. There was a lot of civilian executions, rapes and other atrocities. All sides were equally guilty in this ‘ethnic cleansing’.

In 1992, the UN (United Nations) entered Yugoslavia to 'keep the peace.' I do not think any group really wanted the UN in Yugoslavia, certainly not the Serbs I knew. We despised foreigners meddling in our affairs, but they were here. The outside world gave all of Yugoslavia a choice, comply and let us into your country or we will embargo you until you starve to death. Yugoslavia had little choice but to allow it. Where we lived, the UN was just on television but their presence and political actions meant products were becoming scarce. In time, we knew medicine for the old and sick would be taken away by them.

At age 19, it seemed exciting to me in a way. I assumed the military would return things to normal, but I was seeing history unfold. Oddly enough, I was more concerned with the availability of film and getting my pictures developed than what was happening far away. Unlike my father, I did not grasp the full picture and remained naive for the first few months of the UN getting involved.

During the early war, I played a lot of card games. I ate many meals where the food was poor but the company made up for it. I saw a few tanks up close. I interacted with many soldiers but that was what you did back then when you try to save a country which could not save itself.

At this time, my father and most others believed that Yugoslavia was destined to fail. President Milošević's plan of a 'Greater Serbia' seemed like the smart play to them. The idea was for Serbia to become a super country comprising the best lands in Yugoslavia, which meant driving all other ethnic groups into poorer regions. This was much like what America did to Native Americans or what powerful groups do in prisons to weaker inmate groups.

My country was breaking apart, and I found myself trapped in a small section of the land, doing odd jobs for free to help my neighbors. I hoped the war would end soon and that if Belgrade still existed, I could go to university there. If not, Austria was across the border, and if the war had not engulfed all of Europe first, I could go there. But my father still made the decisions, even though I was 20 years old. I loved him as a son but accepted that he would tell me what to do until the day I die.

In the summer of 1993, around my 20th birthday, I saw a stranger chopping wood for a family I had known my entire life. I knew everyone in town but did not know him. I spoke with this stranger and apparently he was a drifter, a displaced man. His entire town was taken over a year earlier. That drifter became my best friend and motivated me to drift as well. His name was Dragan.

Dragan and I believed that Yugoslavia could somehow be salvaged and put back together. Everyone could just forget about independence, and we would return to a united brotherhood of states like we used to be. Dragan would have his town back. This was an unpopular view in our area, but that is what both of us felt. We also knew not to voice this around my father or his friends. On a personal level, politics did not matter so much, with Yugoslavia clearly dying before us, we were Serbs first.

Dragan told me many things about the war, what the enemy did and what they were capable of. The way he explained it, they were monsters who would never stop. Due to a lung injury, he could not be a soldier, so he took a different route and helped other people, other Serbs. At the time, I did not think about becoming a soldier myself. I was not against it, but I would not have become one unless it was my time to serve or if my father asked me to.

A few days later, over lunch, Dragan told me in detail how the enemy forced his town's people out. He was a victim of ethnic cleansing, and not only that, but his wife and mother were murdered in the process. What he told me was horrifying (I do not think there is a better word). He cried in front of me as he told me the details, and for a Serbian man, things like that do not happen, yet they did that day. I lost my mother at age seven and it seemed trivial in comparison, Dragan had lost everyone he had, his wife and his mother, to barbaric murder on the same day.

I not only understood my friend but felt a deep connection to him. It was a bond not of pity, but of someone who deserved to be looked out for. I felt responsible or perhaps obligated to be with him, like a younger brother. Not that a 25-year-old grown man needed a 20-year-old to look after him, but Dragan needed someone in a family kind of way since he had no one else in in his life.

After having serious discussions about the war, we decided to leave our community together. We would leave the safety of our sheltered community to help those in need. If we encountered the enemy, we would engage them from a distance, provided there were not too many.

I told my father of my plan to leave with Dragan and it was hard on both of us. He wanted me to stay with him, though he never said why. The most he would say was, "You are foolish, stay here young man." That was his way of explaining as much as possible in as few words as possible. The war was close by, but the battles certainly were not. At the time, I did not believe we were in danger because we were in a very Serbian zone. I knew my father and the town's people would be okay, so I do not think my father wanted me to stay for that reason. I think he wanted me to stay because he was afraid I might get killed. If that were true, it was touching for him to want that for me, but at the time, I saw telling my father I was leaving as an obstacle to overcome in order to save my homeland.

He turned and walked away from me mid-sentence. Since my late teens, I had thought of myself as a man and my father treated me as such, but I never stood up to him before, let alone with dreams of drifting around in war zones. It was painful, and I knew my father well enough to realize that walking away was just as hard on him as it was for me.

That day, Dragan and I left to help fellow Serbs in need. Our noble intent was to assist wherever we could, but as proud Serbs, we also supported our homeland, whether that be a 'Greater Serbia' or a peaceful Yugoslavia. We were neither aid workers nor soldiers, but by visually identifying ourselves as Serbs, we became targets for all non-allies.

I left and never saw my home again. Later, it became permanently in enemy hands, so I hope my father burned our house to the ground when he fled. I hope the townspeople burned down everything and even the road signs leading to our town. I hope the enemy was left with nothing.

When the evacuation happened, I was not there to help burn my town down, but I can forever do my part to deny them something. Out of spite, I will never give the enemy any legitimacy by even naming them. They get no recognition from me.

Between the summers of 1993 and 1994, I think of it as ‘the long year’. Drifting around was a culture shock to me. Sometimes we slept in beds, sometimes in barns, and sometimes not at all. It was not what I was used to.

About a month drifting, Dragan and I were in a small town for a while, helping out where needed. A Serbian army unit came through and stopped, there were maybe five vehicles, so not large, definitely not impressive. Regardless, the townspeople were happy to see them and greeted the soldiers as heroes. There was one little girl who seemed scared of all the people and movement. She was perhaps six years old.

She stayed at the corner of a house close to the road, watching everything. I pointed her out to Dragan. He was good with kids and motioned for the little girl to come over and visit the soldiers with everyone else, but she would not move.

I was talking to one of the older town men, maybe about goats, while Dragan left us and walked over to the soldiers and talked to them. After a while, Dragan walked across the road to the little girl, who was still watching all the strangers.

Moments later, Dragan was crossing back, carrying the little girl on his hip. She held an orange in her hand. He walked over to us, not approaching the soldiers, but coming directly to where we stood, and introduced his new friend to me.

Some parts of the long year were not calm. I experienced true fear for the first time in my life. It was a strange kind of fear though, unlike the fear you get on an amusement park ride, it felt more like 'this is all wrong, I should not be here yet I am,' sort of fear. It was like driving on ice and losing control, like the moment before you crash into a ditch, when nothing can stop it. That is what true fear felt like to me when people were shooting in my direction.

I saw bodies for the first time that were not my mother. It was a shock to me because it was not controlled lying down and in fine clothes. The bodies I saw were in various positions, with distorted expressions.

Although I remember little about my mother in life, I knew her well in death. When my mother died, my father held a home vigil. Her body was brought home, and my father and I watched over her for three days. Friends and family came to pay their respects, kissing her forehead and saying their goodbyes. For those three days, I hoped the hospital had been wrong and that she would wake up, but she never did. As a kid, it felt important to be there, though. I learned that dead people do not get back up, and it changed how I viewed death. One minute someone is talking, and the next they are frozen, motionless, and growing cold.

One of the first bodies I saw up close was that of a man sitting against a tree. I could not see his face because he was slumped over. It was disturbing but not particularly frightening to me. There was sorrow and maybe a human connection to the man against the tree but little else. I knew he would never wake up.

As I looked at him, my mind replayed a scene in which he was shot and of his thoughts before he died. Perhaps it was a way for my mind to process the dead this way. My mind envisioned him being shot in the stomach, falling and dragging himself to rest against the tree. There he sat, thinking about the pain of his wound and wishing he was with his family. The blood left him and he drifted off. Whether that happened, will never be know but that is how I have processed seeing bodies from then on. Dragan does his Christian thing to the bodies while envision their last moments.

Weeks later, I saw my first decaying dead bodies, a family that had been there for weeks. We discovered them only because of the strong odor. I did not think about what they must have been like while alive or what their last moments might have been. It was different. While there was extreme revulsion at their sight, inside I felt a fight-or-flight response kick in, as if a magnet was repelling me away from them. Perhaps it was primitive fear, the instinct that being near them could somehow endanger me. To this day, I still have vivid images of that family, even though I only saw them briefly.

Throughout the long year, Dragan was always next to me. He had already seen what I saw and was a great comfort. Not that I was cowardly or anything, I could have gone back home at any time. But Dragan was there, and together we made a difference in the war and helped others in need.

We rode with the military to the outskirts of a city called Sarajevo. It had been under siege by the Bosnian Serb Army (VRS) since early 1992. Military officers requested that we enter the city as a special type of observer rather than soldiers. With my limited combat experience and photography skills, their task suited me well. My father's political connections likely played a role in our selection, though perhaps it was simply our loyalty. Regardless, we entered the city as armed civilians and, as proud Serbs, it felt like our duty to do so.

In the summer of 1994, we met Addy on the streets. She was with four men, all kitted out in military gear. I assumed she was a medic, but she was armed with an expensive submachine gun, so maybe not. The MP5 submachine gun was not common in the area, which stood out to me. She was also a woman who was attractive in an American sort of way.

The four other men had rifles that were not AKs or M16s, I did not know what they were. The men were clean-shaven but wore dirty uniforms, not standard military uniforms of any type I knew. Between the military gear and the uniforms, I knew they were foreign fighters, the first ones I had seen in the war. We did not ask them if they were fighters, we did not need to. Sarajevo at the time was a hotspot for foreign aid workers and journalists, foreigners wanting to get into the action of being around death like moths to fire. With the expensive guns they had, they were likely here to cause death. Regardless, it was good they were on our side.

From the way Addy spoke, she was not British, most likely American. The other men did not speak much. What I remember most about Addy is that she did not belong there. She looked out of place as she kept glancing around nervously, like someone who was scared. She fit in with her group but seemed like she was overwhelmed with everything.

I had studied English for two years, and of course, I picked up some language skills from television. It was good to be able to talk in English with someone, even if it was limited. We left the street and ducked into a nearby building where Addy took care of me. She pulled out some bandages and salve from a pouch and doctored up my arm. While she was doing that, our limited conversation revolved around wound care and a British singer, Kate Bush, who Addy looked a little like. I did not tell her what we were doing there and she did not either.

She also took out several bottles of medicine, gave me one tablet from one of those bottles, and told me that without antibiotics, my cut would become infected. I promised her I would try to find some. The salve worked well, but it left a scar that never went away. I never found any antibiotic but to this day, I am thankful for Addy.

Back on the street, a soldier whom I assumed was the leader motioned for them to move on. Addy told Dragan and me, "Good luck out there," and as quickly as they had arrived, they left. Addy was the shortest of the fighters, so she had to catch up to them. She did not turn around to wave goodbye, I assume that would have been frowned upon by the men.

About thirty minutes later, Dragan and I heard automatic weapons fire in overly long bursts. It was unusual. Dragan said it was most likely inexperienced fighters or even foolish kids involved in a skirmish with Addy's group. That seemed reasonable to me.

Later, we quietly made our way toward where the gunfire had been. We found Addy there, sitting haphazardly against a building wall. Her MP5 and rucksack were gone. We did not see any other bodies nearby, only Addy was in view.

Dragan and I did not approach any further, as it was clear Addy was dead. If we had ventured closer, we might have been shot. With everyone knowing that we were Serbs and enemy combatants being in the area, we were targets.

Seeing Addy there, a woman I barely knew, was painful. I felt pity for her because she had become nothing more than ambush or sniper bait to the enemy. All that Addy was had been reduced to that by the enemy. I also thought about death differently now, while I knew it could come at any moment, with Addy, it felt more real. She was someone I knew.

Addy was the first person I knew personally who died in the war. I had met Americans before in Belgrade when I was fifteen. However, Addy was the first American I spoke to as an adult. She was also the first foreign fighter I had met. Even though I only knew her for the last hour of her life, I will always miss her.

She was close to my age and attractive, but there was more to her than that. Addy was genuinely kind, and I felt she truly belonged in America, not on the streets of Sarajevo. Everything about her told me that she was far too kind for this place.

Addy is not part of my 'porodica,' but she does have a family somewhere in America. I do not know what brought her to Sarajevo, and it saddens me to think that we left her on the street. I doubt her family knows what happened to her, as the men she was with did not seem like the sort who would bother to tell them anything.

In my travels, I have seen the walls of despair too many times. Countless photographs of missing people are posted on those walls by relatives searching desperately for answers. They do not care if the answer is good or bad, they just want an answer, any answer.

To this day, I know how Addy's story ended because I was there, but there is no family to give that answer. A photo of Addy being used as sniper bait did exist at one time. However, I seriously doubt the military used it to contact anyone, it was just one of many photos on a roll of film I took that week.

Throughout the summer and autumn, we continued to do what was expected of us by the military. At times, it was rather dangerous, but usually it was routine. We were relocated to a different section in Sarajevo, and I think it was for the best as we could do our military task and also help some people in need. Some parts of Sarajevo had occasional power and water, but this area had neither.

In late November 1994, we met Mrs Knežević in one of the harshest conditions imaginable, within a half-bombed-out apartment building. The building housed fourteen people who were weak and old. Dragan and I were welcomed into their apartment where food was scarce. To join them for the winter, we agreed to venture into the dangerous streets and provide them food. Something they were ill equipped to do themselves. We also provided them security of sorts when we were not away with our task.

Although the bombings were a distant memory for much of Sarajevo, this part of the city remained under constant threat from snipers: local militias, paramilitary units, and definitely civilians. The Serbian units posed little danger to us, but the constant threat of sniper fire was very real.

The residents stayed together in a central area that was originally two apartments with walls purposefully punched through for warmth and protection. We spent our time with them there. There were other rooms visible from the central area, but no doors, as they had been used for fuel long ago to keep the residents warm. For me, the apartment building was a culture shock in both sight and smell. All Serbs value modesty, but here, in this apartment building, there had been none for a very long time, long before we arrived. Everyone knew each other intimately in those harsh conditions.

Mrs K stood out among them. She was quiet but when she spoke, her words were harsh yet polite. Despite her sternness, everyone gravitated towards her, finding solace in her presence. Around Mrs K, everyone had a belief that everything would be fine when the war ended. She was maybe 70 years old so she was at least a teenager during World War II. Her resilience was undeniable. Although there were older residents, she was the matriarch of the group.

Food and wood were both extremely scarce. One night near the first day of winter, Mrs. K ordered Dragan and me to come upstairs with her. We followed her into what remained of her unlivable apartment which was a mess of debris that once was her home. She pointed to the corner where heavy rugs covered something large. Mrs K uttered just one word "fuel," then she left us.

We stayed behind, uncovering the rugs to find an old, well-used piano. The residents did not say a single word as we broke down the piano and carried pieces down to the central area and piled it up next to the makeshift stove. From their facial expressions, they knew exactly what we were doing. After all, we only knew Mrs K and the other residents for a short time. The residents of that apartment building likely had known each other for decades.

For the next two days, everyone huddled around the small warmth of a measured flame provided by Mrs K's old piano. She remained stoic but quietly cried as she watched the fire consume her beloved piano. The tears were silent and subtle, barely noticeable unless you looked at her closely. Dragan noticed Mrs K as well but we knew not to say anything. For two full days, each time I glanced at her, there were glassy eyes and wet cheeks as she stared at the makeshift stove. Mrs K was an utterly broken woman.

When the coldness became unbearable, Mrs. K stood up as the matriarch and found a solution with her cherished piano. Mrs. K's 'porodica' consisted of old and weak people whom others discarded. Through the adversity of war, they relied on one another, and their identity was their collective identity. They were each other's support system, and Mrs. K was at the top.

On January 7, 1995, we celebrated Christmas. Besides Serbs having a different character set and language, we also have a religious calendar (Julian). Christmas is Christmas though and the residents celebrated it with absolutely nothing. Having nothing, we celebrated by telling stories about past Christmases. This was not an attempt to fantasize, rather, it was simply sharing memories from years gone by. I learned a lot from the elderly residents that evening. One of them had personally known film actress Elizabeth Taylor decades earlier. It was not the best Christmas that any of us have ever had but it was one of the nicer ones for everyone who was with us. Maybe having nothing but each other made it special.

In February 1995, we still assisted the military with what they requested of us, but I was also attached to life with Mrs. K and the other residents. Their bombed-out apartment building was our home.

Dragan and I were not part of Mrs K’s ‘porodica’, but the rest of the residents were. We would have been seen more as either very close friends who they knew for decades, or perhaps even seen as ‘familija’ (family) to them, most likely, close friends. Time gets compressed and distorted by hardships like war, especially in environments where everyone lives together day and night without modesty in close proximity.

Each day, Dragan and I brought food back for the elderly residents, distributing it fairly among them. One morning, we came upon nearly a case of canned pears. However, there was not enough to go around. Dragan and I and maybe two elderly men did without.

A fit man in his thirties, who had been observing us from a distance, approached our group and took a can of pears from an elderly woman, Mrs. Deroko. The residents did not protest out of fear, they likely assumed this thief would take theirs as well. This brazen stranger in our zone was both a tactical problem and a clear threat to our friends, the residents.

Dragan started to get up to confront this thief but I put my hand on his knee and told him that I would take care of it. I knew the stranger was likely going to run and that Dragan would try to chase him and hurt himself due to his lung problem he had. If the thief did not run, I wanted to shield him from what I thought would happen.

I stood up and walked to the thief, who did not try to run or even make any movement at all. He just defiantly stood there with one hand holding Mrs. Deroko's can and the other hidden in his thick coat pocket. I cannot explain what happened other than I went into auto-pilot mode and did not think. I calmly pulled out my pistol from my coat pocket and shot him once in the chest. He died instantly.

Everyone sat in silence as they processed the events, while I stood there thinking, 'That was quick.' The thief died before his face could even twitch, and I did not know that was possible from a chest shot. Though I had shot at people before from a distance, I never knew if I really hit anyone, this thief was the first person I knew I killed. He lay dead on the ground in front of me. It was nothing I had expected as he looked just as he did before I pulled the trigger.

I once asked some soldiers what it was like to kill people. They told me it was not like on TV, whatever is on the other side of a gun is just a thing. I did not really believe them at the time, but seeing the thief on the ground, they were right, at least for me. If it had been a year or two earlier, I think I would have felt differently about killing someone up close.

Soon afterwards, an elderly gentleman retrieved the can of pears beside the man’s body and returned it to Mrs Deroko. She whispered "thank you" to the man. She turned her head and whispered the same to me. The residents resumed their meal of pears in peace.

Everyone around me seemed normal with my action, as though I just changed a tire on a car in front of them. At that point, I felt the same, like everyone else. The war had dragged on for so long that everyone had become numb to these kinds of things, for soldiers and also for those who were not soldiers.

I walked over and sat down with Dragan. He said nothing about what he just witnessed so I resumed our previous conversation. When our conversation was over, I looked at the dead man and told him that we should take care of the body or the rats would. That was the only time anyone brought up what happened. The incident was quickly forgotten by everyone, like changing a tire.

Shielding Dragan from that action was the smart play, it was the only play. The thief was the first person I knew for certain that I had killed, and to this day, I feel no guilt or remorse, nor do I seek praise or fame. Frail Mrs. Deroko needed to eat, and that strong, healthy stranger was merely an obstacle. Killing the thief and everyone’s reaction to it might seem heartless to outsiders, but in that moment, in Sarajevo, that was the way things devolved. In those times, such actions were simply expected of you, and being the most capable, it was my turn.

Mrs. Deroko was a quiet but good person. She was in her 80s and was by far the weakest of the residents. She was very old and wore a grey wool hat at all times, I think maybe she was bald. That hat seemed current fashion and modern compared to the rest of her clothes, which were in an older style. She was always cold and stayed as close to any heat source as possible. Her husband died decades earlier, and I do not know if she had any living family members. During Christmas, she was one of the last ones to speak and tell her story of Christmases past. I think it was about her family from many decades ago. She spoke very softly, making it difficult to ever hear her clearly. I will always miss Mrs. Deroko and her modern hat, but the thief will not be missed by anyone.

Dragan was born in 1968, so he was a few years older than me. He was born in a rural community but, unlike me, he left for the city to live in Belgrade when he turned 18 years old. There, he met his wife, Anja, and they both had good city jobs. When the first civil war began, he was requested to return home to his village. They needed him and other men as a sort of security force. Dragan was not a soldier but was needed to protect his village with guns if the enemy came. His village eventually became a contested area, and one day, the enemy came.

Dragan told me that his wife, Anja, along with several other Serbs from their town, had been murdered by a vengeance squad. The West called such squads ethnic cleansers, and in a way, they were. One side would send in squads of men to punish other ethnic groups for who they were and take their land away from them. There was usually a lot of death (hangings and shootings), some rapes, and religious buildings desecrated then destroyed. However, unlike the ethnic cleansers, the vengeance squads went so much darker, they were motivated by pure rage. They used unspeakable torture, amputation, mutilation, and rape as tools to inflict horrific suffering. To a vengeance squad, death was merely a side effect.

Dragan only survived the attack because the vengeance squad thought he was dead. Dragan told me that he and Anja were beaten unconscious. While unconscious, they kicked him in his right side with their boots until they broke his ribs, intending for him to die from a punctured lung. Later, when he regained consciousness, he saw what had happened to Anja, all of the survivors saw what happened to her.

Twenty of Dragan's townspeople died that day, but three young women were murdered in a very public and extremely brutal manner, Anja was one of those three. Dragan told me every horrifying detail about how Anja died, and the image has stayed with both of us forever. I will spare you that image.

Anja's death was a truly devastating loss for Dragan. The murder of his mother that day as well. Without children or other living relatives, he found himself alone without his Anja and without his 'porodica.' That made me his only family during the war, and he became the only family I really had then.

Dragan was like a magnet, attracting people in need. Whether it was old people needing roof repairs or wood cut, we tried our best to do what we could to help people. I did the heavy lifting while he did the fine tuning due to his lung problems. We did various sorts of labor and usually ate home cooked meals. Eventually we went into the city of Sarajevo, which was the one place we should never have gone.

The best part about Dragan was that kindness. He always managed to have sweets in his pockets but I do not think he ever ate any, he simply saved them for others to have. He would trade valuable things just to get sweets to put in his pockets. He would always have something to give away to people he thought needed them. That was just what he did and that was who he was deep inside.

Of course, there were bloody things we both did during the war but I want to remember Dragan in this way first. He was a sad man who made others happy. I am not naive and know he wanted to join Anja in death but he was never suicidal. He wanted to help save our homeland first. Maybe afterwards, move on to join her.

“Yugoslavia was like forcing cats and dogs to share a bed. They did not fight because Tito cracked his whip, but when Tito died, they bit at each other’s throats.” - At the time, I thought his joke was funny, the truth in the form of a joke. That one joke gave me a sort of defiant happiness and was actually the deciding reason I drifted off into greater Yugoslavia with Dragan, to calm the cats and dogs down. Sadly, the dogs bit too deep and Yugoslavia fell apart.

In March 1995, Dragan and I were on the street preparing to enter a building to perform our task for the day. We were talking about coffee. Coffee was not easy to get at that time, but that is what we were discussing.

I put my hand on the building’s door, and Dragan started to stumble and fall against the wall of the building. Then I heard a single shot from a distant, high-powered rifle. I knew what had happened, but at the same time, I did not know what had happened. I did not take cover because I was so shocked that I did not even realize the danger or even care. I watched as Dragan moved his mouth a few times, perhaps breathing or maybe trying to speak, but in just a few seconds, it was over. By the time Dragan slid to the ground, he was dead.

The sniper was skilled and suspiciously well equipped to be local, likely the marksman was a foreign fighter for the enemy, or even from the UN. We were clearly identified so the sniper was certainly not a Serb, that much I knew. From where we were standing in the open, the sniper had plenty of time to choose between us. He purposely chose to shoot Dragan in the upper chest. The sniper could have shot both of us, but did not take a second shot. Dragan was shot purely out of spite during an alleged UN ceasefire agreement, it was nothing more than cruelty.

Seeing him on the ground, moments ago full of life now lifeless, was truly devastating. I felt utterly lost and did not know if I wanted to live or die without my brother. Numbness washed over me as I sat there next to him, in clear sight of the sniper and everyone on the street. I was not suicidal, I was beyond that and in a different world.

I think the sniper did not care about shooting me next. He made his point and probably left to drink coffee somewhere. About an hour later, the numbness left and was replaced by anger. Out of spite, I would live if only to avenge Dragan.

I was angry with the West, angry with the Croats, angry with the Muslims, and angry with my own people. I was not shot by the sniper nor did anyone come to my aid because no one cared. They thought I was worthless and not worth the trouble. My dreams of saving Yugoslavia died along with my best friend. Why? Because no one cared anymore, it was over for me.

I returned to the apartment building with the same somber look on my face as Mrs. K. Unlike her, however, I was not just broken, I was furious. It was best for me to go, which meant leaving the residents behind. I went to the military headquarters and told them of Dragan’s murder, adding that someone else would have to take over our location. I also told them that Mrs. K would be willing to take them in if they asked.

I think that most people experience survivor's guilt, wishing it had been them instead of their friend, a hero sort of thing. I understand that and it is noble but I did not have that kind of survivor's guilt. Dragan wanted to be with Anja one day, but it happened quicker than both of us wished. I had a different type of survivor's guilt, for an hour, anyone, even a child, could have killed me, but no one did. I had the guilt of not only surviving but surviving unscratched.

Dragan and his wife, Anja, are part of my 'porodica,' the very core of my family. I miss both of them dearly: my brother, Dragan, and Anja, whom I knew like a sister even though we never met. Neither of them was related to me by blood, but both were and always will be family. They are together now.

With the loss of Dragan, I had to think for myself for the first time. That was not as easy as it sounds, working without a team of two. I was not one to steal, and in a war zone that is harder than it sounds, even finding a place to sleep was challenging. So, I left the city and went back to the countryside so I could eat and sleep.

I should have joined the army and become a soldier, but I did not. I was exactly what the army wanted: a fit, young man full of rage and desire to kill the enemy who had killed my brother. I wish I had done that. My nightmares at night would have been simpler and lighter had I had just joined the army.

One day in March 1995, outside a rural town, I came upon a farmhouse where I could eat and sleep for a day or two. It was owned by a man older than me, his wife had died, but I never asked why she died as that is not something you should ever do. He had a ten-year-old daughter. They were clearly extremely poor, but they welcomed me to stay for a few days as was common practice back then.

So you know, all people in Yugoslavia left the UN and NATO forces alone. Some people expressed disdain and mockery of the UN forces from a distance, but no one dared to harm them because they were truly untouchable. To harm one meant a few retaliatory airstrikes at a minimum, possible UN sanctions or even a full-scale war with the West. The UN soldiers were arrogant, fully aware of their power over everyone.

A UN vehicle pulled up and turned off its lights. Three armed UN peacekeepers got out. They started walking toward the house but heard the daughter in the barn. So they went to the barn instead. It was dark, but they were not European, maybe Pakistani or Spanish. They were short men with long rifles.

We assumed these UN soldiers would steal a goat or something and leave, but that is not what happened. From the barn, we heard the ten-year-old daughter’s horrible screams, but I was in no position to act with only a pistol against three UN peacekeepers armed with rifles. Her father and I were both helpless in that regard. All we could do was wait through one agonizing minute after another.

In those first moments, I was stuck between fight and flight. I was mentally helpless. That feeling passed me, and other emotions replaced it, none of them were to stop what was happening though. I could not imagine what her father was feeling inside, but I am certain it was much different from what I felt. We just had to wait and pick up the pieces with his daughter when the horrible ordeal was over. After a few more horrifying minutes, the screams stopped. Likely she had passed out.

That night, I offered to take the father anywhere he wanted to go, but he refused. I also offered to help bury his daughter, but he refused. He was destroyed by grief and stared either at the blanket we covered her with or simply stared off into space. We did not speak, it was not a time for talk. Both of us were in shock. I had only known his little girl briefly, but all of what happened was so horrific. We did not leave the barn, we just stayed with her. That was the proper thing to do.

At dawn, I left the farmhouse with images forever etched in my mind and a burning hatred toward the UN. I had complicated emotions too painful to mention so I will not. I was ‘changed’ though.

I will always have unending regret. If I had known what UN peacekeepers were truly capable of, I would have fought them with my pistol when they first arrived. I would have certainly died, but it would have been worth it. That was my mistake and I must live with it.

I must live with her horrible screams in my mind. Not screams for help or screams of pain, those I could live with. His daughter's indescribable screams are screams no one should ever hear, yet her father and I heard them for several minutes.

What happened is something I cannot take away or make go away. It is ironic that most people are troubled by those they have killed in war, while I am forever haunted by three I could not. I wish I could somehow track down these anonymous men from a long-forgotten war and savagely kill them, but that would not change what happened. Instead, I have to live with the pain and guilt in the day and the nightmares at night.

With Dragan gone, I had no compass or direction. What I experienced at the farmhouse forever changed me. I have always been kind to the vulnerable, but since 'the bad thing,' I find that I will protect the vulnerable with my very life so someone innocent does not suffer. It is a fair trade to me.

The first of the wars started in 1991, and by 1995, I had lost so much in my life. I was lost, angry and devastated (that is a good word). I needed to leave everything behind and start over with my life or die in the attempt.

The town where I grew up already belonged to someone else by then, and every person I knew was either displaced, missing, or dead. I knew where my father was, but my father and I were not talking. As with many men of his generation, forgiveness did not come easily for him, and he felt I had abandoned him when I left to help others with Dragan. As with many men of my generation, my father's word is law. I hope one day he forgives me.

There would never be a unified Yugoslavia. Although I had assumed there would one day be a Greater Serbia, moving there as a refugee did not appeal to me. Later, when the war was finally over, the map showed a Serbia, but my town lay well outside those borders, so it did not matter. Regardless, in 1995, I found myself homeless.

Not having a home to ever go back to was a factor in my decision to leave, but there were more reasons. I needed to leave my homeland because of the haunting memory of my best friend, Dragan. Partly it was that he died while talking to me, but worse was that I did not have a single drop of Dragan’s blood on me from the shot. I did not move his head to see if his eyes were open. Even as I sat next to him for an hour, I did not touch him because I did not want his blood on me. The sniper did not shoot me during that hour I stayed with him, but that was no excuse for not touching my best friend, my brother. There was no excuse for that, it was unforgivable on my part. I hope I have atoned.

All those things made my decision clear, to go far away from this forever. Soon after Dragan’s murder, I went to a special agency that was capable of providing me legal citizenship in another country for a high fee. I was certainly not a fan of America or any NATO country, but I had both German and English skills, so it was easier to quickly leave for Austria, Germany, Canada, Australia, or America. Those five countries would be possible but America seemed most tolerant of strangers of those equally bad choices. From the choices the agency had, I decided on Nashville, which is in the state of Tennessee.

During those two years waiting in war-torn Yugoslavia, I could have quietly waited for the paperwork to come through somewhere safe, perhaps in Europe or a safer part of Yugoslavia, but I did not do that. Instead, I took up arms and became an active combatant. I was driven by thoughts of avenging Dragan by killing all those responsible for murdering him. The girl at the farmhouse fueled me as well but the UN were considered royal guests and were untouchable.

For those two years, I never once crossed the line and killed anyone without reason. Inside, however, the things I did only brought me personal shame, not regret, just shame. I was actively fighting without a cause, because a unified Yugoslavia was over, and certainly my father’s idea of a Greater Serbia was also over. The fighting I did would not bring back those I had lost yet I continued. Thought those two shameful years, I even had a name for my AK, a name to remind me of my complete contempt for the enemy. I was numb and did not care.

During the war, I witnessed and participated in actions. I saw many acts of heroism by both civilians and soldiers alike. I never once saw an actual hero but I think that is true in any war. No one in history has ever left a war with clean hands, certainly not me. Everyone had dirty hands in that war. From what I saw, Serbs had dirty hands, Croats certainly had dirty hands and to no one’s surprise, some of the UN Peacekeepers were just as brutal as they were peaceful. NATO was just typical NATO.

During ‘the long year’, I was 20 years old. That was when my view of death changed. Throughout the entire war, I thought of enemy civilians as humans but a lower class. I had pity for them as long as they did not look at me directly. I always considered enemy soldiers as less than human and acted accordingly, they were simply sub-human objects. Not a single enemy soldier's death bothered me then or bothers me now, not one. At night, I save my horrific nightmares for innocent civilians, whether they were the enemy or not. Most of my nightmares are about people who meant something to me though.

During the war, I saw a lot of laughter among soldiers in paramilitary units, especially toward the end. This laughter was not during battles or skirmishes but rather during the torture and execution of unarmed soldiers and civilians. Their killing was somber at first, as it should be, however, over time it became more light-hearted, perhaps because soldiers did not want to show that it affected them in front of their peers. What I saw later was that for many, it had become a joke. It was rare to see a soldier who did not smile or make a crude comment when shooting someone.

As for how I felt seeing people executed, I will always think that in any war, it is acceptable to execute soldiers, spies, and civilian combatants. When I witnessed these executions, I knew that if I were 25 km away, I would be the one kicked to the ground and then shot. I believe the victims felt the same way, if only they had been 25 km away. These things occur in all wars, but my issue is with making light of it. It should always be somber. My bigger issue is executing civilians who are clearly innocent, that crosses the moral line. I never partook in executions myself, however, I was never in a position to stop the soldiers or to end the war simply because I disliked certain aspects of it.

Rape was widespread and a tool all sides used. To release frustration and rage upon someone weaker is likely how it starts in war. I think rape has always been a thing soldiers do during any war. Except for the barn, I never saw anyone being raped. If I had seen or heard it happening, I would have stopped it. Widespread, yes, however, the people I was around never did such things. I was never a saint, though, even though I did not like it, I never stopped a woman from being shot. My moral line is that death is quick but rape scars forever. Since the barn, I certainly would sacrifice my life to save any woman from being raped. Fortunately, for them, friendly or enemy, I was never tested.

What haunts me is the people I met there, including Addy, the American woman who I doubt her family even knows that she is gone. Mrs K, the stern elderly woman who broke a smile when Dragan managed to scrounge up a hideous green pair of wool socks on one of our evening runs. Weeks later, Mrs K became a shell of a woman in front of everyone and I doubt she ever smiled again. Mrs D, the residents found her confused and wandering on the streets. They took her in and she became part of their family forged through tragic hardship, their ‘porodica'. Of course, Dragan, my best friend who was with me until his end. There are others before Sarajevo, like the dead man holding a picture frame in the middle of nowhere and little Sofifa who hugged Dragan for no real reason, human beings out there whom I often think about. Some after Sarajevo, the girl in the barn haunts me the most and I do not even know her name. There are a few others after Sarajevo as well.

All of those people haunt me but perhaps the person who haunts me the most is myself, at least the man I was back then. Looking back at all that I wrote and all that I dare not share, I am truly haunted at times by who I was. Sometimes the old me comes back under stress. I become who I was, not a monster and not a bishop, just who I was. Perhaps, the best word to describe this is that under stress, I have ‘potential’, I have the potential to help or to harm, depending on the situation.

What I experienced was horrific, but the war itself no longer troubles me as much now. Neither does the enemy, though their presence in my town will forever be an issue with me. My compromise is that anyone who lived in what was once Yugoslavia can have dinner with me here in America. However, do not insult me or make light of what happened. I realize that the enemy were just people, and as individuals, many of them deserve my pity. In the end, while my side lost, so did all sides. I will never be friends, but we can talk about the present to each other.

Decades ago, our long-fought war shattered my country as well as my people. Today, it saddens me to know that America and much of Europe has simply forgotten all about my country and what we tried to save from extinction. The world has moved on to cellphones and social media, but I also believe that the idea that 'half of writing history is spent hiding the truth' is why the world has forgotten. NATO had many so-called accidental bombings of civilians in the late 1990s and even used cluster bombs on Yugoslav soil. The UN had their issues as well so I believe that is their motivation to have the public forget the civil wars ever happened, to forget Yugoslavia ever existed.

In 1997, I was informed that the relocation agency had completed its task, and I could finally go to my new country, America. Had I stayed, I likely would have died eventually. I did not care much about anything and tempted fate so many times. Still, I could leave but I considered staying, not for me but for the other fighters there. They were certainly not 'porodica' to me. Some I would trust, and some I would not. They were more like close friends. We shared laughs, meals, and bullets.

That night, when I found out that I was cleared to leave Yugoslavia behind, I thought hard about staying for longer but in the end, I decided to leave my friends behind because I was tired of the rain. I wanted civilization without the fear of surprise attacks at any moment by artillery, motors, or soldiers.

Soldiers come in all shapes and sizes. At the time, we thought NATO might be invading us soon enough. They had serious ground forces and acted like kings in our country. Yugoslavia was always neutral (non-aligned) so we were friends with both the Soviet Union and NATO. Neither of them would allow us to be invaded for fear of the other side. With the Soviet Union gone, we thought NATO might want all of Yugoslavia. It was time to leave while I could.

The ability to start over fresh somewhere far away was what I needed. I just did not realize it at the time but wanted creature comforts. With all the necessary documentation in hand, I wasted no time leaving behind the war and Yugoslavia.

There was culture shock. I left home at age 20 and at age 24, it was over. Now I was in civilization in Frankfurt, Germany, waiting for the flight to America. Fortunately, I knew enough German to know which way to go, but little else. That was enough though to get on the correct flight. Oddly, there were English words used at times so between the two languages, it was okay. I managed to reach my flight with plenty of time to spare.

Throughout my time in the airports, I scanned the crowds for headbands and beards. I scanned the far corners for RPGs (rocket-propelled grenades). I avoided all empty ticket counters. I knew what I was doing was silly as the war was now over for me, but I did it anyway. I went from terminals to flights to terminals and eventually to Nashville, Tennessee with purpose, but at the same time, with the expectation of death at any time, either shooting or being shot at like I was only a few days earlier.

If there were enemies, I was defenseless as without an AK (rifle), there was little I could do. After Dragan was murdered, my AK became my companion. If I walked 10 steps, I brought it along. There were many times when I would walk through the terminals and look around for my AK before starting off again. That habit took many months to break.

In a single day, I arrived in Nashville, Tennessee, the city of country music. For most of my life, I had been rural, so a city like Nashville was not New York but not farmland either, it was in between the two. It was a good decision on my part.

For the first few days, I stayed in a hotel room near the airport to relax and calm down a bit. I had lost my people and my homeland, which was a deep pain. Just as bad was the fact that I had lost my dignity in the two years after Dragan’s death.

Now, in America, a place I was not a fan of but a country that would accept me (thanks to the high fee I paid the relocation agency), I thought of many things in that hotel room, with my Americanized pizza delivered to me. I think I would have stayed there forever, but I motivated myself out of despair. I decided to make the best of America and considered that doing so would be a challenge. America would be an obstacle to overcome, as would my despair mentality.

Nashville city life was quite an adjustment. Before the war, I had visited cities, during the war, I stayed in Sarajevo for many months, after the war, I returned to a city to live. With the confusion of being in a strange environment, where only Latin characters and English were spoken, I had to rethink how a city worked. People slowly walked from building to building, stores and shops had glass windows, not a single building had bullet holes or mortar marks. The very smell of Nashville was so different than Sarajevo's. Nashville smelled like rotted bubblegum, grime, occasional deodorant, and engines to me. Sarajevo smelled like rot but certainly not rotted bubblegum, mixed with grime, concrete dust, human waste and burnt wood.

My language skills were not poor but not great either. I knew that I would pick English up over time. In the mean time, simple things like grocery shopping with oddly shaped packages that had words on them which might be English words I did not know or might be brand names was a bit confusing. Little things like that plus obviously people spoke English but their English was not the English I knew, they used southern English dialect.

Language was not my main problem, it was everything else. I had never rented an apartment before. I had never had a real job before. I certainly knew how to drive but had never owned my own car.

As for people, it was a culture shock. In Nashville, everyone seemed friendly and eager to talk, but young and old alike appeared overly concerned with their themselves and their appearance. Before the war, I had visited big cities in Eastern Europe and even Austria, but all Americans took self-promotion to new heights.

Like at home, I was not very interested in politics here. America has a two-party political system, I knew about them but had never seen one in action before. Two parties fighting each other instead of doing what was best for all people. I was not a fan. I knew that I would never put a framed portrait of Bill Clinton on my wall next to the television set. I think those spaces should be reserved for only the most special leaders, like my father’s President Tito.

I needed assistance, not because I was weak, but because help would make things easier for me. One reason many reasons I chose Nashville was that assistance was available if needed, it came at a cost though.

Thanks to this assistance, I was able to settle into life as an American. I had a good job, paid state and federal taxes, so the government was well aware that I was a "skilled worker in an important field." Most importantly, I began my dream career in photography. It was not about capturing war images, which I occasionally did, rather, it was about photographing happy things and happy people.

I was an American and did well but, for several years on a personal level, I was very much lost and directionless. I do not know the words to describe it, but I felt like a puppy who had been caught eating his master’s slipper. Knowing that eating the slipper was wrong, feeling shame and guilt, knowing you deserve punishment, that is how I felt.

From a distance, I watched as those Americans around me built lives with wives and families, something perhaps I did not deserve. Although I was a respected photographer, I lived alone in a very modest apartment without even the companionship of a dog to eat my slipper. I put myself in self-exile so that no one else would be blamed, I was punishing myself. I deserved that punishment.

My apartment was functional but sparse with a single bed tucked into a corner, an office chair, and several desks cluttered with neatly arranged camera equipment. My days were all the same, work, return to the apartment, then back to work. That was my solitary life, but after five years in Nashville, everything changed. I would soon be free from my prison.

By 1995, Yugoslavia and my life were in ruins. I was alone with my father's estrangement, and Dragan and Anja were both dead. It got worse, though, with the girl in the barn. Then came two years that would distract from the core of 'Porodica' and should not be mentioned here. In those two years, I never crossed my moral line. However, I did not have to cross it to be scared of what I had done. I have many traumatic memories from that time.

In America, I punished myself for five years as though I were in prison. Although no court would have sentenced me to prison, inside, it was the smart play as I needed to do exactly that to reduce my numbness and feel alive again.

The next chapters are about how I shaped a new life and the lives of those I care deeply for, my 'porodica.' It was not easy, but that phrase, 'we are not defined by our past but by our potential,' certainly applies to us.

Patty, that was the name on her name tag, changed the subject quickly. Although it was hard for me to keep up with what she was saying, I became fascinated by her smile. She was genuinely a nice woman. Appearance wise, she looked like an average, thirty year old housewife.

My headlight was not under warranty but that was fine. Patty was good conversation and she loved the way I pronounced her name, Patty. I thought I pronounced it properly but I could see that she always smiled when I said the word, Patty.

That was how our special friendship began—a simple conversation about a replacement headlight turned into something more as she was no housewife and she liked my accent as much as I liked her smile.

We went out for coffee and lunch a few times that month. Nothing very romantic as we were just getting to know each other. Patty was talkative, telling me all about her life before, how she had been married once but divorced about seven years ago. She told me it might have been due to fertility issues. I spoke as well but mostly about recent events. I was happy to talk as Patty always listened to whatever I had to say.

A month or two passed, and our coffee dates became something we both looked forward to. We were both lonely, but together, we seemed like a good fit for each other. Patty did not talk much about her marriage, but she certainly told me everything else in her life except that.

Her family was not rich with money or with love. They simply were not well connected, and Patty felt forgotten in her parents' lives. She had friends in high school and spoke of many adventures with those friends. It seemed like she could talk forever about her fun life at school but could not spend five minutes telling me any family stories.

After high school, Patty married soon but she did not talk much about it. She said the marriage was a mistake, but I think she quickly married someone just to have someone love her. And, clearly, it had not worked out and was a sore spot for her to talk further. She talked about her jobs after the divorce and mentioned many of the interesting customers she dealt with. I was happy Patty was self-sufficient and had confidence within herself.

One day, during a coffee date, I suggested we go see the ocean together. It would be just something to do on the upcoming long weekend. Patty agreed, and we started planning our trip. She wanted to go to Savannah, which is in Georgia. I thought that would be good as the city has beautiful trees covered in Spanish moss, and the Atlantic Ocean would provide fine photo opportunities.

The drive to Savanah took eight hours. Comfortable with Patty, I opened up about my past, not the worst parts, but enough to show her who I was. I also told her whom I had killed and why. She listened without judgment or fear. What I shared was not out of shame, but necessity. Killing, soldier or not, is frowned upon, yet crossing this barrier was essential for our relationship's future. This was not about immediate marriage or intimacy, it was just the start. My long term goal was simple, to find a partner I could trust, and Patty had great potential.

When we finally stood on that beach near Savannah, Georgia, the vast expanse of blue took our breath away. The salty air filled my lungs as we walked along the shoreline, hand in hand. In that perfect moment, an idea struck me.

Patty looked surprised but intrigued for a brief second. Then she shook her head gently. "We're still on first base and have only been dating for a few months," she reminded me. "People usually take things slower in America."

She smiled and leaned into my embrace as we watched the waves crash against the shore. That night, under the stars on the beach, she shared details about her previous marriage with me. As she continued, her details grew darker. I think inside, she had second thoughts about ever being attached to anyone again. Maybe she was trying to push me away, or perhaps she just needed to tell someone, someone who would listen and understand what scarred her so deeply.

I was not pushed away by what Patty told me on the beach, but as she continued to share the violent details of her marriage, I became angry at what she was telling me. While I tried to be patient and caring as she spoke, inside, dormant emotions were surfacing, anger toward Robert, her ex-husband. As she spoke, it became increasingly difficult for Patty to continue. I knew how trauma works and felt it was too much for her to relive those painful memories on the beach with me. It was best I pause her.

Politely, I started with "I will tell you some private things about my best friend, Dragan, and more importantly, his wife Anja." What I said was not to stop Patty from going further later, that was her choice. I told her so she knew that she did not have to continue as I already knew what she was going to say next.

Patty stared at the ocean for a moment before speaking: 'I hate my ex-husband,' and then she started crying. I knew what I told her had overwhelmed her, and she was crying not only for herself but also for Anja. As a stoic man, I hid my own tears from view with a tight embrace. Men like me do not cry, but on the beach, I was also overwhelmed. Telling Patty how Anja died brought back images I did not want to remember. Seeing Patty cry so hard confirmed that her trauma must have been very similar to Anja’s. Sparing Patty from telling more was the smart play. What is important is that I now understood Patty, and she now understood me. It was special bonding which cannot be described, only felt.

I hugged her tightly so she knew I was there for her. Also, so she knew that I could always be there for her if that is what she wanted. In that moment, I knew that I needed someone to protect in my life, and wished it could be Patty. Long ago, there was a ten-year-old girl I could not protect and it cost her her life. With Patty, I would do better, she would always be safe with me if she were to ask one day.

Patty cried for a bit longer and it was over. She did not need to speak of these things further for the rest of her life unless she needed to. If she did, I would be there. I did not need to speak of these things unless she asked.

With that nightmare over and Patty at ease, I calmly shared more of my own past with her. Mostly, I spoke of the softer times before the civil wars began, when life in Yugoslavia was sometimes harsh but predictable.

Americans did not know how my country was before the wars, but I was used to it. Patty was honestly shocked that we had Coke and decent coffee. I told her that Dragan proposed to Anja at a rock concert in Belgrade. I told her how Yugoslavia actually was. On the beach, Patty listened attentively and was willing to learn about the way things were with her hand intertwined with mine.

She asked me some odd questions about whether I was a typical Serbian man and if I drank. I told her that I considered myself a typical man and that I did not drink often. I went on to tell Patty about Serbian culture. The men I knew were generally patriotic and religious. Most of them valued their families above all else. There were a few drunks among them, but every Serbian man I ever knew strove to work hard.

I knew exactly why Patty was asking me those questions, those were compatibility questions. Although I was not concerned with other women, it seemed right to ask her about how American women think about men. She talked a lot but seemed reserved. I thought maybe she was doubting her worth to anyone so I changed the subject after I made sure to tell her “I was just curious.”

I was caught off guard by her change of heart but managed to quickly tell her “It is what I want as well.” It was a respectful response but Serbian and to the point, there was no possible miscommunication in those words I spoke.

Although I wanted a wife so I was not lonely, that took second place after Patty shared what she shared with me. My upcoming marriage to Patty would be different than what I thought my marriage would be about. Patty needed someone who would protect and hold her to the end, and she trusted me to provide that. I would be that man and never let her down. We were both broken in our own ways but we could mend each other.

While Patty was still speechless and in the moment, I was able to speak, I told her many things from my heart. I then told her that Serbian men value things that American men refuse to and she would always be safe and protected by me. I explained what to expect from me as a decent Serbian man and what I accepted from her as an American woman. Patty did not patiently listen, she craved every word. It was a good discussion.

On the beach, she also told me that she could not have children. That made it sad that she would tell me a second time, but I understood that it was important for her to do so if we were to move forward.

That night, we spoke for hours. Patty liked the idea of living close to the beach, and from what she privately told me about the very dark things in her previous marriage, I knew she needed a fast and clean break from her past in Tennessee. I certainly did not need to stay in Tennessee and one day introduce myself to Patty's ex-husband in a very Serbian sort of way. It was best to start fresh somewhere else, and Savannah was the perfect choice.

My job as a photographer in Nashville was stable, but I knew I could go anywhere. The world needs good photographers. I also loved the ocean from the moment I saw it for the first time. Moving here with a fresh start as husband and wife would be wonderful.

We returned to Nashville and one week later we were married at the courthouse. It was not a proper, expensive wedding though. I had coworkers but few friends, and my ailing father lived far away. Patty had no family at all, not a single one. She did have many friends, however, and her closest friends would be part of our celebration at a local restaurant afterwards. Simple yet perfect, it marked a new beginning for both of us.

In a few days, I would need to do my part as a husband and find a real home for us. I made a promise to move to the beach, and that is what I needed to do. Finding a home several states away was simply an obstacle to overcome.

I needed to act quickly for a clean break, so I left Nashville while Patty finished her last days at the dealership. I went back to Savannah, Georgia, to find a home close to the beach where everything changed for us.

Outside Savannah, I found what would be our new home, a modest two-bedroom house in a subdivision. While not an ideal location, it was comfortable and not downtown. By car, there were nearby places to shop, which suited us well.

Growing up, I lived in the same small town. Even as I got older, before the war, we would occasionally drive to big cities, however, for the most part, I always considered myself rural. The war changed everything, and since then, it seems I have been living in cities. My first home was not in a city but rather in the famous American suburbs.

Buying the house presented a minor challenge. Real estate companies generally frown upon outright purchases, but I was firm and eventually they accepted my money. It stemmed from an old-world mentality: if you have money and do not spend it, you always have money. In America, everyone uses credit, which seemed reckless to me, a cultural difference I never quite got used to. As a photographer, I had built up savings over years of hard work and preferred the peace of mind that came with owning things outright, avoiding debt at all costs.

In the backyard, there was a small porch where I placed two chairs, one for me and one for Patty. We could sit outside, talk, or simply look at the grass. I envisioned spending all year on the porch, looking at our backyard. I planned to have a grill and do things like everyone else does who own houses. I envisioned so much but later found that summers are very hot in Georgia.

In the front yard, I decided on remembrance trees for our most special family members who are gone. Instead of traditional oak trees, which symbolize endurance, I chose the resilient myrtle tree because they grow through cracks, like us. Also, they were practical and grow in Georgia easily, like us.

I knew exactly what she said but it took a moment to process her words. She was waiting for my response, so I quickly told her, "That would be nice. Dragan and Anja together here at our house. We can watch each other grow." I should have said something else, but I did not have the words for it. I think I will never have the words for what I should have said in response to that touching moment.

That night, there were no nightmares, I only dreamed of Dragan and Anja, happily drinking coffee in Belgrade on a sunny day. I will always cherish that beautiful dream of them together, as my dreams are so few.

Around noon, we planted the saplings in our front yard together. Thanks to my father, I am not religious, but we did have a ceremony of sorts. Through those tiny trees, I spoke to both Dragan and Anja as if they were there with us. When I finished, Patty held my hand, and she did the same, speaking kindly to Dragan but mostly to Anja. She spoke to Anja as though they were long lost sisters and in a way, they were. It was an intimate moment filled with remembrance rather than sadness.

We had many neighbors, but none visited us when we first moved in. That was fine as I was not one for many people around me. However, I thought it would be good to have friendly neighbors. Friendly neighbors ‘if’ they ever decided to introduce themselves.

On our porch, Patty and I had our first home discussion. I brought up the fact that no one had greeted us from next door. Patty suggested we knock on a few doors ourselves. She did most of the talking, but in the end, we made friends with the couple to our left and right.

I bought a grill, and to this day, we have our neighbors, now friends, over for casual gatherings from time to time. There is an older couple who visits us quite often, it is Patty's close friend Jackie. Despite her being about 70 years old, she seems good for Patty. I do not see what they have in common, but they certainly talk a lot.

The best thing I like about our home is the living room wall. It is pure white and separates the living room from the dining room. Patty wanted to put the TV on that wall, but I told her nothing goes there, not even one of my framed photographs. She never asked why, she did not need to.

That one wall is something I deserve to have just for myself, a place that is mine, no one else's. Spending the winter of 1994 watching people without any modesty through a big hole into another room, this perfectly smooth wall feels like a new beginning to me. Smooth and pure, it has no holes to look into the dining room. That solid wall gives me great contentment while watching TV with Patty, no one else, just Patty.

As for our new home, this was indeed a second chance, different from the painful memories of war that still lingered in my mind. For Patty, Nashville was now a distant memory. Together, we were happy, building a life filled with love and peace in this tranquil corner of America.

I had not had a proper Christmas since my mother died. My best Christmas was in 1993 with people I barely knew. They gave me two brand new shirts and the same to Dragan. They prepared a meal of fowl and of course, holiday bread. No meal is complete without bread, but Christmas meals need special bread. They also had some cheese pastries, which I still have no idea where they got the ingredients for everything. It was a very traditional Serbian Christmas. That was a very special Christmas for me and Dragan. It was the best Christmas I ever had.

In America, Christmas is on December 25th and is very commercial. Being alone for Christmas makes a difference, sometimes a friend might invite you to their house. That can be good but also bad. It is nice even if it is not your family as you see everyone's happiness, but there is an uncomfortable feeling of being an outsider. Maybe not at my house, but in Yugoslavia, Christmas was more tradition oriented, even for friends.

I was indifferent to any Christmas celebrations as I was always in self-exile after the war but I knew not to invite myself anywhere. I never asked Patty specifically if she had a Christmas with her friends after her divorce. That would have been rude and maybe I did not want to know the answer. I knew it was best not for her to remember his previous marriage Christmas times.

2001 was our first Christmas together, and for both of us, it was definitely the first proper Christmas either of us had had in many years. We had only been married for a few months, Patty was adjusting to her role, as was I. As the family provider, I wanted to have a somewhat Americanized, suburban Christmas. I went to great lengths not to have Christmas customs like those I had growing up, not that they would bring back bad memories or that I felt ashamed of them though. After my mother died, Christmas at my house had no meaning, I wanted this Christmas to have meaning with new traditions.

We were ready. Weeks ago, I bought a few boxes of small lights for the outside and put them on top of the bushes like the other neighbors had done. We needed at least something to blend in with the rest of the neighborhood although some had big productions most others were mildly decorated. Inside, Patty decorated our tree and did a great job. She spent time to ensure each decoration was just right.

I wanted to be a “tread setter” so I placed around thirty large, white candles in the living room. Even though I never saw candle decorations in Yugoslavia, America or even on TV, I wanted them in our home so we could be different and unique. We also hung silver tinsel to make it even more special.

I had high hopes for our first Christmas. I bought Patty a thoughtful gold ring with diagonal etchings in the gold. I put much effort into that ring and knew she would like it even before she opened it, well, I hoped she would like it.

When December 25th arrived, Patty and I were ready. Although it was just the two of us, I wanted it to be like all the Christmases on television. After morning coffee, we went to our first Christmas tree for presents.

There were seven gifts under the tree. Patty wanted me to open one of hers first. She was excited and staring at me as I opened it. Inside the box was a screwdriver. I was surprised, but that was Patty's plan. Before I could thank her for the unusual gift, she said, "You will need that screwdriver, for what is in the backyard." I was confused until she added, “I bought real chairs to replace those plastic ones." Then I understood. Patty had not been a fan of the chairs I bought earlier. That was a thoughtful way to start off Christmas.

It was my turn for Patty to open my gift, and she opened the box with the ring inside. It was exactly how I expected, she was all smiles. She was curious about the cost, but I did not tell her. She put it on her hand where it remained for the rest of the day.

After her private laugh, there was a pause as Patty must have thought I had more gifts hidden somewhere. But I did not have any more. I told her honestly that I had no more gifts, and she was polite about it. Fortunately, her smile continued as she watched me open the gifts she gave me. I would say funny things with each gift. Opening gifts is all about seeing reactions and making others you love happy.

Our first Christmas together was a success. I told Patty that, from then on, she would receive only two gifts from me each Christmas, one gift of gold jewelry and a personal, very meaningful gift. The second might or might not be expensive but would always come from my heart.

Although there is life insurance, it has always been customary in my family to provide wives with emergency resources. To this day, I have never let her down with that promise. My Patty could buy a small kingdom in gold by now.

Later, we went to our neighbors' house, Jackie and her husband, Robert. They were the older couple from next door. Patty baked cookies and fudge the day before. They liked what we brought them. Patty was a fine baker so her cookies were truly good. I knew not to eat her sugar fudge though.

Patty had difficulty with elaborate meals because of her cooking skills, so we had already decided on going out for dinner after finishing our visit to the neighbors. When we excused ourselves to leave Jackie and Robert's house, they would not allow that. Jackie took Patty into the kitchen, and later the four of us had a little bit of fowl and a lot of vegetables. They even had rolls. Our first Christmas together will always be remembered. There were minor problems with my gifts but there was no sadness with Patty and no haunting memories of anything for me.

In late July 2003, my father called me on the telephone. I did not know how he had my number, but somehow he did. He told me he had to have surgery and that we would speak in person before the surgery. As his son, I assured him I would meet him at the hospital. It is one thing to be estranged from your father, it is another to disobey him. I would be there even if I had to walk thousands of miles.

Patty told me that scheduled surgery meant he was not going to instantly die, which made me feel better, it made sense as it was not emergency surgery. But for my father to want to see me in person after ten years apart, I still feared this could be the last time. Whatever he wanted to tell me must have been critical.

The stress mounted as I prepared for my 72 year old father's life-saving kidney surgery. Memories from my war-torn past resurfaced, intensifying until this event was over. I could feel myself getting on edge over little things. Even neighborhood sprinklers irritated me.

I rarely fly, and without Patty, I would be going alone on this flight. The worry for my ailing father brought out suppressed emotions from my past. Coming from a nation that had endured years of war, the busy airport felt like a reminder of those chaotic times. The terminal was loud, busy, and confusing. I was not a fan.

The flight itself was also a struggle from the beginning. When I boarded the plane, a sense of relief washed over me from the chaos of the terminal. Mid-flight, a flight attendant offered coffee, which I accepted gratefully. Looking out the window, I felt peaceful for a moment drinking my coffee. But then came the discomfort of leaving half the cup unfinished. Embarrassed, I handed the half-finished cup back to the flight attendant.

A woman nearby glanced over and said, “For airline coffee.” This meddling stranger broke my moment of peace. She certainly did not know what bad coffee was or that even the worst possible coffee is something to cherish. With the stress of the trip and my father's condition, I reverted and displayed myself in a poor light.

She looked at me in shock. There was no American arrogance on her face or anyone around her anymore. Realizing I needed to change my attitude if I wanted to get to see my father, I added more gently, “I mean, I hope you never have to drink bad coffee.”

That seemed to satisfy her as I was not removed from the flight. Everyone went back to reading their books and playing on their expensive cell phones, ignoring me as if I were a mere foreigner having a bad day.

I focused on the task of seeing my father but also had thoughts about some of the men who were with me when I was an active combatant during the war. They would have likely shot the woman just for opening her mouth. Though I was never that way, likely I would have punched her a few times to save face with my peers. I focused harder on my father and those primitive thoughts faded. After all, I guess I was just a mere foreigner having a bad day.

As the plane touched down, I was now focused on the hospital where my father awaited me. It had been a very long time since we spoke in person, and with his surgery the next day, we had many things to discuss which could not be said over the telephone.

I took a taxi to the hospital. Before entering his room, I stopped at the nurse's desk and spoke with them. His condition was much more serious than Patty thought. He had been in the hospital for a few days already, and the surgery was scheduled for early the next morning. The nurses explained what the surgery was, and though I did not fully understand it, I felt comforted knowing the nurses knew.

When I went into his room, a man with a stern look was there. He looked very old and sickly, and I almost thought I was in the wrong room. But it was my stubborn father, war and the decade apart had aged both of us.

I moved a chair over next to him. That night, I stayed with my father and spoke about many things, and we reached an understanding, regardless of the outcome, we would be at peace. Though there was concern, I knew this serious surgery would have only one possible result given his age, either full recovery or death. Oddly, that certainty comforted both of us.

My father knew how sincere I was. My father was very right, Yugoslavia had died well before I left him in 1993. His play for greater Serbia was the smart play, it was the only play we had. In the end, we lost.

My father motioned me to hold his hand which I did. He looked me in the eyes and said “Let us not talk of this again.” Still holding his hand, he pressed my hand in a gesture of forgiveness. I felt like a prisoner in a dungeon who had been personally pardoned by a king. My father forgave me, and until the day he died, we never spoke of my leaving again.

I knew whatever my father saw without me there was bad, after all, if our home even stands, it is in enemy territory. My mother’s grave as well, I knew that hurts him deeply and hurts him as much as it hurts me. I know he had many stories about many things but I knew he would never want to talk about them. I had many stories of my own but there was no need to talk about those either. Speaking of anything about the war or our permanent disdain for the UN and NATO was inappropriate. This was family time.

When the doctors took him away for the surgery, I waved a good luck wave. I knew I would have to accept whatever outcome the surgery brought, but inside, I did not want my father to die. It was a fear of letting go if he did die but also uneasiness of not being in control of his fate. Now that we were in each other's good graces, it was difficult. He was stubborn and harsh at times, but he was still my father, and I was his son.

It was stressful for me but on top of that, the nurse told me to leave the pre-surgery area. I went to the hospital cafeteria. I was not hungry but bought coffee and a small amount of food anyway. The cafeteria seating area was huge, maybe enough space for 200 people. Most of the cafeteria was open space with large windows facing a garden where people could sit and see the view.

I noticed a pattern emerge which I doubt many Americans would even notice, I could guess which countries people came from just by observing where and how they sat in that large hospital cafeteria. It was not paranoia as nearly all foreigners were the same.

The foreigners, like me, sat away from the grenade kill zones inside and away from possible automatic weapon fire spraying bullets from passersby on the garden sidewalk. A division most would never notice. Maybe all Americans were simply oblivious to the danger everyone faced just by where they sat in the peaceful hospital. As I thought about that division, I observed many hospital staff holding lunch bags they brought from home which might contain their lunch but might not, never trust bags in crowds. There was danger everywhere.

America was obviously not immune to terrorist acts, yet none of them apparently thought it would happen at their hospital. The smart ones know all too well what a rich target this hospital is.

Hours later, I received a text from the hospital staff informing me that my father was out of surgery and the surgery had been successful. I rushed to finish yet another cup of coffee and went to where the text directed me. I got lost a few times but eventually made it to his side. Fortunately, he was still asleep when I found him.

When my father eventually woke up and opened his eyes, I was there. The operation was a complete success, and when he was fully awake, we spoke deeply for the first time in many years about my mother. It was a long-overdue talk with him.

He told me many things I did not know about my mother, Nadia. Things which were never brought up to me after her death. She was a farmer’s daughter, and her beauty had attracted my father. They were both devout Eastern Orthodox Christians. She had me and wanted others but for unknown reasons, that never happened. She fell sick with cancer. My father stayed with her at the hospital for the final few weeks while I stayed with friends. He also mentioned that he had married her when he was twice her age and that he loved her dearly. He spoke of her in a way I was not used to, but I understood why he never remarried and stopped being religious. I had only seen his stern love, but perhaps he was just protecting himself. I did not ask any questions, just listened.

I did not want to leave my father, but the hospital was finished with him. The next day, I was at the chaotic airport once more. As I boarded the flight back to Savannah, I knew my father would be fine and my trip to the hospital was a success. Even the war inside me had quieted.

Stress seems to bring out such reactions in me. During the entire trip, I was under great stress, and it showed. Although I will never truly be a fan of the West, my outward behavior that people saw of me did not reflect well. I have been part of the Western world for over a decade so it was a poor reflection upon myself.

Back in Savannah, Patty was waiting for me along with others waiting for their people to leave the jet. When we saw each other she ran to me like a teenager would. She hugged me. Usually, I do not like overt signs of affection but this time, I was glad she did. We were one of the few couples to do this and I felt relief that the long journey was over.

On the ride home, she asked me how I felt. She already knew about the trip from our phone calls but wanted to know how I felt. It was comforting to know that she was curious about me in that way. I told her that next time, she should come with me. Patty would not have liked seeing my father at the hospital this trip, but I would have been calmer with her there. While there, I could have shown Patty some of the nice parts of the city.

In August 2003, Patty and I had been married for a few years, she was content and happy with our life in Savannah, and so was I. We both had jobs and were financially secure. Despite providing her security and doing many things together like taking walks and dining out once a week, we seemed to have everything Americans desired, a modest house, cars, even cellphones. Yet Patty started to be sad. Before we married, I saw how Patty could be sad at times, but this was different, she seemed to be always sad as she rarely smiled.

We had been through this painful trauma before with her desire for children. To me, it was always okay to be without children, as Patty was more important to me than a child ever could be. However, my role as her husband meant providing safety, security, and happiness for my wife. I knew Patty wanted a child of her own to have and hold. The doctors had told her it was not meant to be, as she could not have children. She is wonderful around children and would make a great mother. Maybe it was time to change our household tonight if she was up to it.

I immediately mocked the therapist’s words while defending my Patty, telling her she was a complete woman in every way. But when she cried even more, I chose my words poorly: "You cannot have children from your body," I said, "but you can certainly be a mother. That is what all good women do, they are mothers first."

In my mind, I thought about buying a dog like we talked about but never did. I imagined Patty and me going to a park and pushing swings with other people's children, but those ideas would not work. We needed a household change. Since Patty was in mental pain before she went to the therapist, maybe I should see if she wants a child of her own. Maybe a used child is something we both need.

She stopped crying and laughed slightly at my comment about getting a ‘used’ child. I could tell her laugh was an uncomfortable laugh though so I explained that in Serbian culture, a ’used’ item meant passed down but still useful. Patty stopped me from going further.

“Yes, you need to be a mother, and a child somewhere needs you," I replied. "That is what we will do. A new child could be molded into any shape, but that was not possible with a used child. The two of us could mend a used child together into something just as strong. They would be the same.”

That night, we discussed adopting a child so we could have one of our own. We decided on a ten or twelve year old child to match our ages more closely than a newborn. Patty mentioned the challenges of puberty but agreed that we could help this child through those difficult years.

For about a month, we did not contact state services but instead talked about the child as if he or she was already home. Although our house was modest, there was a bedroom the child could have. I moved the furniture around and bought a nice new bed for the child's room. Patty bought some decorations, mostly neutral but with some boyish items that made me secretly happy.

I called my father and told him the news that hopefully, he would be a grandfather. As expected, he said, “That is what I want.” Making certain to use as few words as possible. I then explained adoption. He was concerned that bureaucracy might get in the way but offered any financial support he could give. My father spoke with Patty and she told me that she thinks he told her the same. My father’s English is minimal. Language problems or not, it was a good discussion.

As she typed into the computer system, a problem emerged due to my initial legal status when I first came to America years ago. This flagged us as ineligible for adoption because of an error in my immigration process that I had corrected soon after arrived in the country but still persisted in their Georgia state records. I had been a U.S. citizen for years but apparently, not in Georgia.

They outright denied us, and it was truly all my fault. Not being able to adopt a child was one thing, but in that moment, I felt I had ruined all of Patty's dreams of becoming a mother. I failed at protecting her happiness and failed as a husband.

I did not immediately comfort Patty though, instead, there were flashbacks of where I had parked our car, every step we took in the building. Around me, I saw every person and obstacle in a primitive and very brutal sort of way. Moments later, I decided that there was nothing I could do to get a child for Patty or myself.

I held back from physically lashing out at the representative, knowing it would not change anything. I had been in many bad situations before so I knew it was best to find a solution for the impossible situation I put Patty in.

We were both devastated on our drive home, however, before reaching the house, I had an idea. "Patty," I said, "when we researched adoption, the state way was cost-effective, but private lawyers are expensive."

I was content that Patty was now happy. To emphasize how much this task meant to me, I added the tried-and-true Serbian approach: "Worst case, I will bribe a judge, but we will have our boy soon." I try to speak only English to Patty, but I made an exception and nodded while telling her "our boy" in Serbian. She may not have understood those two simple words I spoke, but she clearly understood that I was serious and that we would have our boy soon.

My solution was one I had used a few times in the past, so I knew it would work on this important task. I simply went to a law firm in the state of Georgia, which was more than capable of handling the problem. I told the lawyer what I needed, told them that cost was not an issue, and politely, yet in a very Serbian way, told them not to abuse my generosity.

That week there were some paperwork and a few interviews on our part but I always told Patty it was not a problem and for her not to worry. I was confident and knew my solution would take time. How the law firm handled the matter of removing my flag in the state computer system and finding our boy was not my concern, it was theirs. I did not need to be bothered with details whether they legally handled it themselves, subcontracted the task out or if they bribed officials. To me, the adoption was simply an obstacle to overcome with money.

Patty had confidence in me but I think deep inside she was nervous. Any soon-to-be mother would feel that way. She never mentioned feeling nervous to me though. She and Jackie from next door might have talked about it privately.

At times, we would talk about how well our boy might do at school. We discussed how kids might do homework in the 21st century. We were patiently waiting for updates from the law firm, but those were few and far between. It was a waiting time for us, so we did not bring it up often. I was still confident about my plan working and told her as such.

Having a child was more than just our feelings, though. My father was also interested in knowing when he would become a grandfather. We just did not know it. For a man of few words, he carries a sledgehammer.

One evening, my father called and wanted to know the status of the adoption. Patty was close by but she did not understand what we were saying. I told him we had filled out the required paperwork, but other than that, I did not know. I told him Patty and I were both confident the adoption would work out, but it would take time. He wanted to know how long it would take, so I told him maybe a year or two. He responded, “I am old, that is too long,” and asked for the name of the law firm that had told me it would take a year or two.

I knew exactly what would happen next. It was not a blow to my ego, nor did my father think I was incompetent or less than a man. I did not mind him taking charge of the situation that way. My father was being a typical Serbian father of his generation and exercising his right over me. It was not about dominance, it was his responsibility as a father of his thirty-year-old son to take charge in situations like this. It made him feel helpful.

Two days after my father called me, the law firm called. When I answered, it was not my lawyer but apparently the head of the law firm. His name was one of the three names listed on their letterhead. The law firm was large, and he appeared to be at the very top. The man apologized for the delay and told me the adoption process was being fast tracked. He then apologized again, and the call ended.

When the call ended, I did not feel any less of a man because my father was now involved. I felt oddly connected to him like before I left him long ago. Like the connection we shared at the hospital recently, things were back to normal with him. The decade apart had not diminished the love we shared for each other. He was the patriarch and did what he thought was best for his ‘porodica’.

I told Patty that my father was now involved, and the adoption would not be long. She looked like she was at peace, but at the same time, cautious. Her expression was similar to how people look when a stranger offers them an ice cream.

I did not tell Patty what my father was capable of, but knowing him, it was likely bribery of the law firm or, less likely, he contacted some connections and had men pay the law firm a special visit. Of course, my father could have simply flown to the law firm and politely asked them himself. He could also have had a young woman make the call on his behalf. Maybe he had dirt on the President of the United States or someone important. I did not need to think further about the method as in the end, my father removed an obstacle for me, his son.

I responded, “I was not expecting him to help but he is very good at making things happen.” I thought that was a simple answer, I did not know or worry about details, and I doubt my father would want me to worry at all with his gift to us, his ‘porodica’.

She changed from hesitantly hopeful to hugging me in a private sort of way and then asked me to call my father so she could personally thank him. It was touching that she would do that, even though she could not understand him very well. On the phone, my father told her he was happy to help.

During the process, we found we were an extremely good fit with one of the candidates. He was a little older than the others, but I thought there was potential. He was quiet, respectful, and I had a feeling about him that he did not think anyone would want him. It was not arrogance but rather, it was a defeated mindset. I recognized that look from my time during the war. I had seen that look in many people, young and old alike

Patty, who knew more about American kids than I did, also liked this particular boy over the rest. I told Patty what I thought of him, and she agreed, although for different reasons. She believed that he had a genuinely kind heart. I did not see it myself, but it made sense that a respectful boy could also be kind.

In late April 2004, nine months after the adoption process began, Patty and I welcomed our son, Michael, into our family. There were times of emotional highs and lows for both of us, but we had confidence and greatly appreciated whatever my father did. The legal firm never refunded the large sum of money I had given them at the start of this process, but I did not expect them to. That was fine, the greatest things in life should always come at a personal cost.

On the big day, Patty and I showed Michael around our home and his room. He was well mannered but quiet. From his eyes, I could see that he was very appreciative but also not used to kindness. It was not in anything he did, it was just his eyes that told me these things. Maybe he thought it would be too good to be true or maybe he had some scars, but I knew to give him time as he had only been in our home for ten minutes.

The three of us spent the rest of the day getting to know each other, nothing was serious, and there was no pressure. We also spoke about school supplies and clothes he would need for school and home.

Patty asked Michael what he wanted for dinner, which clearly caught him off guard. I think he was never asked that question before, but maybe he was just quiet. I wanted to see which it was but did not ask, instead, I said, “We can have anything you want in the world tonight. What do you want for dinner?”

When the pizza came and was on the table, I learned what I needed to know through Michael’s actions and lack of. It was obvious that he was quiet and respectful, perhaps to avoid punishment in some way from us. He was like a dog hoping to be fed but knowing he would be fed last. Patty was overly talkative about where everything was in the kitchen, to get Michael used to the new environment. Michael was cautious but thankful.

Having an obedient teenager in our home was not what Patty and I wanted. We did not want a dog, we wanted a son. I was not remotely disappointed in what I saw Michael doing during dinner, I knew that he was perfect for us. I just needed to get Michael to see it. The three of us needed one other, and all it would take was a push.

That evening after dinner, Patty explained the rules of the house. She was overly kind and at times soft, but most of it was motherly. When it was my turn to speak, what I said was blunt, not rude, but Serbian blunt. As the man of the house, I spoke about second chances for him. I emphasized that we were not foster parents, instead we were real parents. I told him that when an opportunity like this presents itself, he should accept it but it was his choice to make. I also mentioned that mistakes would be made by all three of us. I told him many things to expect from us and what we would expect from him.

Patty and I had never had a child before, so this was new to us, but I thought it was the smart play. She could do the motherly thing, and I could do the fatherly thing. The boy could do what boys do.

When I finished speaking, I asked Michael, the fourteen year old boy, a question: "I am treating you like a young man. Do you want to go back, or do you want to be part of our family and to be our son?"

Patty knew this was awkward and her face clearly showed it but she looked at him for a response. I knew exactly what I said, and the words were exactly how I wanted them to be. Michael, the quietest boy I had ever seen in America, did not even pause. He simply said, "I want to be your son" and looked at both of us.

I told the two of them, “We will not speak of this again, my son.” That was a promise I never broke. From that evening on, I never once called him by his name, Michael. Instead, I always called him what he is 'my son,' forever ensuring he knew who his family was. I would now protect him with my life, just as I protect Patty.

Americans might think it harsh to do things this way with adoption, or perhaps this way is even illegal. But that night, in our home, that was the way we brought our son into our lives. That was the way he brought us into his life. Patty and I had our second chances, and so did our son.

The first few days with Michael were both challenging and rewarding. He was quiet, as expected, but his presence brought a sense of completeness to our home. We made certain to create a welcoming environment for him, ensuring that he felt at ease in our family. Patty took the lead in making Michael feel comfortable, while I focused on providing a sense of stability and structure.

In the early days, we spent time getting to know each other. We talked about our pasts and our hopes for the future. Michael was not open about his experiences in foster care, he spoke, but Patty and I knew he was not telling us what he really went through. It is sadly funny in a way, the three of us at the dinner table talking about our pasts to each other, yet none of us were saying anything. I knew my son was a perfect fit for our family, all three of us needed love and support first. If his past comes out, we will be there.

His first name being Michael is fine, but I do not like his last name. With adoption, it is only optional to change a last name, and they recommended against that for now. He is our new son, so maybe it is best to wait. One day, we may readdress this and give him my surname. If not, I will be fine with no change as I only call him "my son," and Patty will always call him Michael.

He is stubborn in his own way and wears clothes I barely approve of. He is a typical 14 year old boy, just quieter than most. At times, he has ‘special’ problems with what he went through in foster care. Those do not need to be written about, but with Patty's love and my steadfast support, he will grow into a fine man. My son is exactly what Patty and I needed. She is a natural mother to a child who truly needed her.

Maybe a month after he arrived into our family, I took a chance and gave him some older equipment I had. At age 14, he did not put a scratch on anything. The best part is that he comes to me with his many photos and we review them together. This is something my son and I do and something we both like to do. It is not forced.

Everyone settled into our home and new family structure. I had known Patty for a few years, but Michael, being new to a stable family environment, would take time. There were times I wished the transition was faster and wanted to tell him, 'Look son, you have everything in front of you.' Maybe all new parents feel that way. Michael opening up to family life would be an obstacle to overcome, and it would take time for both Patty and me.

After dinner, I taught my son how to defend himself physically as well as verbally. Confidence, strength, and composure were Serbian strengths he needed to learn, and as a proud father, that was my job to teach him. For about a month, I instructed him daily. He never came home with a black eye, and Patty never received a phone call from his school about Michael giving someone else a black eye, so I assume it worked.

On my son’s fifteenth birthday, I shared with him what my father shared with me when I was maybe age ten. My father may have made up this saying, but he told me that his father had said it to him. Regardless, it is now a tradition my son can pass down to his own children. I told him: "At thirteen you are old enough to carry arrows to the archers and at fifteen you are old enough to carry a sword of your own."

Michael was not legally a man at age fifteen but to the state of Georgia, he could take a test to start driving. Patty and I both had extreme patience and knew our son would do well with our instruction. Our quiet Michael did not disappoint us. It was the opposite, it was the little things like Michael holding a half full gallon of milk asking “maybe we should drive to the store and get more.” Patty sometimes grew tired of his excuses to drive. But I never did. I proudly sat in the passenger seat while my son drove me around. I felt truly connected to him each and every time he drove. We could talk or we could remain silent, it was us doing something constructive together which meant so much to me. I knew one day, his learner’s permit would change to a true driver’s license but I was content in the moment.

Over time, Michael shed much of his quietness. He was becoming more like me, listening and speaking only when needed, with words that have meaning. I told him more than once that this is a quiet strength all men and women see and strive for. Whether that is true in America with kids is debatable, but it seems to work for both me and my son.

There were a few times when Michael had problems in school with social settings, but he retained good grades. At home, there were private moments where he and his mother talked, but it did not require a therapist. Patty was key to helping with his emotional issues.

I helped with my role as father the best I could. Michael and I took many trips around the area, taking photos and relaxing during our father and son bonding time. Some weekends, all three of us went camping.

I am proud of my son and know he is destined to be a better man than I am. Patty is a strong and good mother, she always seems to know what to do, guided by her natural, motherly instincts. She is a complete mother full of happiness and maybe one day, she will be a fine grandmother. With all three of us, we are a complete family.

Michael sometimes had problems adjusting at school and at home. They were minor things for the most part, as no kid is perfect. We were not perfect parents, and Michael was not a perfect son. For all three of us, it was a learning experience.

We went to the mall where Patty tried on clothes but did not buy anything. When that was over, we went to a popular electronics store. Michael looked at some MP3 players while Patty and I looked around, but we did not buy anything there.

When we finished with the day's shopping, I drove towards home, Patty was in the passenger seat, and Michael was in the back. From the rearview mirror, I noticed Michael unwrapping something small and black. As I watched, I saw that it was an MP3 player. Michael was clearly fascinated by it, but so was I, but not in a good way.

I was disappointed in what I saw. Michael could have asked us to buy it, but he did not. I thought maybe he had money and paid for it, but we would have seen him pay. I needed more information before getting mad. I was confused.

I looked at Patty and said, "Patty." I turned my head to Michael in the back seat, so she also looked at him. I continued, "Our son did not ask for money because he thought he could steal something from the store."

Patty had a mad face on her, maybe an exaggerated one but certainly she let everyone know exactly how she felt. Michael now knew exactly why I stopped and had a shocked look on his face like a dog who was caught in the kitchen trash can.

I let Patty speak as she was better at this than I was. I could have asked instead of her though as she only said one word: "Why?" It was good that it came from her though as she has a way about her, especially in stern Patty mode.

Michael proceeded to tell us that the school kids all have them. After a while, I interrupted and asked my question, which was the same as Patty's "Why?" I was also stern and direct. I thought maybe he would be a man and answer me like a man. At his age, it always worked with my father and me.

Michael did not have an answer and looked down, clearly out of words. That Serbian play did not work and only closed him down. Then I thought of something I did not consider which might be the reason. I asked 'why' in a much different way.

I asked, "Michael, did you do this in the past, before us?" I chose those words as Patty and I never speak the words 'foster care’, not to each other and certainly not to Michael. We rarely talk about family matters from before Michael became our son, it is something all three of us know but do not speak of. If we have to, we say 'in the past.' It is better for all three of us.

He said that he did take things, before us. That was the answer I wanted but before I could tell him anything, Patty took over. It was touching what she said and full of words. She explained that the past is over and that we do not do those things anymore. She continued with talk of jail time and normal fear tactics, but the part about ‘the past is over and we do not do those things’ was the important message I wanted expressed to Michael. Foster care and real life are two different things.

When Patty finished, I spoke and told Michael that he would not steal again. It is a poor reflection on his honor and a poor reflection on Patty and me. In this household, we are a team. We are family to the end. I finished by telling him that I would take away his computer forever if he ever did it again. I thought that was what all typical fathers would say, but I just wanted him to know about dishonor. That he needed to hold himself to a higher standard, like the lessons I taught him about self-defense.

When it was over, Michael apologized and told us both that he understood. I told him that he would have to apologize to the store and pay for the MP3 player with his own money if he had any. We would be there with him and accept the shame alongside him as a family. I also told him that he would have to pay his mother back for the ice cream, which was likely melted by the time we got home.

That is what we did. Our family walked into the store unified. Patty and I remained silent as Michael walked up to the cashier and explained what he had done. I am certain he was ashamed, but this needed to be done. We were behind our son to accept the shame with him. The MP3 player cost $129, which Michael did not have, so I paid for it. As I handed the cashier the money, I apologized while he took the money and gave me a receipt. Oddly, the cashier was not mad, more like indifferent and possibly even surprised that we came back with the stolen MP3 player. In Yugoslavia, if I was in Michael's situation, both the cashier and my father would have taken turns beating me. The kids I knew all understood consequences by the time they were old enough to walk.

We left the store together and while driving home, I had time to think of a fitting Americanized punishment, one that would instill proper values in my son who desperately needed to know what those were.

That night, I put Michael's five-dollar bill over the grade portion of his good report card on our refrigerator for the family to see. I did not take it off for a month, but when I did, I handed it to Michael without saying anything. I did not need to. He nodded his head with a look of respect.

The matter was settled and would not be brought up again. That weekend, after Michael put the dishes away in the kitchen, I placed the once-stolen MP3 player on the kitchen table for him. It was rightfully his now.

I did not know at the time, but the punishment was perfect. It taught him a lesson about respecting himself and honoring the family. We would not learn about Michael's past beating in foster care until later, and as his father, I am glad that the silly punishment of the five-dollar bill of shame was all Patty and I did to him. Our son had already been through enough, we just did not know it.

In the spring of 2006, Michael was doing well in high school. He was self-sufficient during and after school and seemed more responsible than many kids his age. He enjoyed playing video games and doing computers things, but I suppose that is typical for young men his age. Patty and I provided him with whatever he needed to succeed in life, and thankfully, he did not take advantage of our generosity or ask for much. Our son was truly thriving.

At the dinner table one evening, I shared these updates with everyone. “Everything is going great for all of us,” I said. “During our summer break, instead of flying somewhere, we could have a proper road trip.” I added, “Where does everyone want to go?”

I did not care where we went, this was a family adventure, and I remained quiet, making no suggestions. Michael wanted to see the Grand Canyon in the western part of America. Patty was happy with anything as long as it was not in the South but specifically mentioned wanting to see big mountains, like the Rocky Mountains.

Michael smiled and nodded at me. The look he gave me was priceless. Patty was right, our son was always eager to drive, but it was more than that, he wanted to show responsibility. Even though he had never driven far before, he wanted the responsibility and the challenge.

"I will map out the route," I told them. "Patty, you will schedule time off. Michael, think about an SUV, but not a big one." We had our communal tasks and would work together to ensure this trip was a success.

To save money, we rented suites in good hotels instead of separate rooms. This meant Michael was close to us. At home, his room was distant from ours, but in the hotel suite, both Patty and I could hear him while he slept. There were times when there was mumbling, which made Patty and me sad. We did not realize that all this time, Michael had been having difficult nights.

"Your mother sometimes has bad nights," I explained. "I always have my own tough times. You have your moments too, and she is concerned." I added bluntly, "It is okay to talk about anything with us, it is not a sign of weakness."

We drove, mostly speaking about the exciting trip we were on and avoiding any mention of bad things. We did all the things families do together on a vacation like this. Patty and Michael helped drive, so it was an enjoyable trip for all of us. Everyone got to see and do what they wanted.

On the return drive, it became less exciting. I could see that everyone, including myself, was getting bored. Michael still had not spoken about his past and that was fine if he never wanted to tell anyone else, but as a father, I felt I should show him that it is okay to share pain between us. So, I decided now was the time to open up and tell Michael some of my own past.

I told them that I grew up privileged. When the war started, my style changed from being privileged to scavenging food for myself, but mostly for others. I spoke of seeing a lot of bodies, some rotten, some not, because I knew Michael likes his video games and wanted him to understand this was real life. I stressed that I never killed without reason and that I sacrificed my dignity by moving to America. Finally, I explained that without each of those experiences, we would not be a family together in this SUV driving down the road.

Patty knew exactly what I was trying to do with giving Michael a chance to open up. She is clever that way. Patty told Michael and me that life is sometimes bad to good people. She also said that she was proud of her men and that we made her feel safe. Both Michael and I were touched, and she was not wrong, her men would protect her. After that, she stopped talking so the silence in the SUV would start again. It was all by design, unspoken between Patty and me.

Minutes later, Michael opened up and told Patty and me about what he went through in foster care. I was thankful it was not sexual abuse, but that was the only thing I could feel grateful about. What he told us was horrible (this is a good word to describe it). I had primitive thoughts of teaching one particular foster care father what a beating with an electric extension cord feels like to an adult. Thoughts of forcing a foster care mother to eat cheap, moldy food while I ate fine steak in front of her. I will not mention the other things Michael told us, but for the most part, they were all cruel things he endured before coming into our family at age fourteen.

All this time we did not know how bad it was, and I am certain Michael did not reveal everything as he drifted off and stopped talking. Since I was still driving, I could do little to comfort him, but I knew Patty would do something motherly. When we returned to Savannah, however, there was certainly something I could do.

I told Michael, “I need names and addresses.” I needed that information so I could correct Michael's abuse my way. When I asked Michael for the names of the abusers, perhaps Patty was not so proud of me at that moment, but she understood that it would always be family first. Before she had a chance to soften the discussion, Michael suggested we forget about the foster parents and focus on our family instead.

I left my offer open for him to provide those names. Michael knows with certainty that through me, he now holds all the power over his abusers. Although I did not like what he told us about the sheer cruelty he endured, their fate is at Michael's discretion. I will respect his choice and not speak of retribution further. This new sense of full control over their very lives should help soothe some of his past trauma, at least a little. Maybe I did not word things perfectly, but Michael and Patty listened intently.

Michael wanted to focus on the family so that is what I did. As his father, I started from the beginning. I spoke about everything I remembered Dragan had ever shared with me about his life before the war with Anja, all the good times they had while alive, and how thankful we should be for our chance. Dragan and Anja are part of our 'porodica' and are also why we are together now.

During everything that Michael told us about his abuse, Patty remained silent, just holding his hand. Her face showed a mix of sorrow and maybe a touch of pity. She was the mother all children wished for, sympathetically present and very much in the moment for her son. That changed when Michael talked about focusing on our family. She was proud of our family and who we are now. When I spoke of Dragan and Anja, she stopped holding his hand and rubbed my arm a few times in support.

Patty, Michael, and I respected what was told in the SUV. I told what I needed to, Michael told what he needed to, and our 'porodica' was stronger than ever. We did not feel pressured to tell our traumas to each other. As a family, we could support one another. Our job as family members was to do exactly that.

With Michael and me finished, Patty saw an opportunity and freely spoke of her traumatic scars to us. It was not as detailed as what she had shared on the beach long ago, but she shared enough so that Michael fully understood her sexual and physical abuse, the sheer degrading cruelty she endured at the hands of her ex-husband. I would have held her, but I was driving. I saw that Michael was already holding both of her hands in the back seat, and I was glad our son was doing so.

She then revealed a secret none of us, even she, was prepared for, it just came out. The reason she could not have children was because of the abuse. She broke down, so I pulled the SUV over. She was uncontrollable and I had never seen her like that before. I was not angry knowing this secret, instead, I focused on Patty. I knew why she was uncontrollable, it was justified, but she was loudly crying and her body was moving around. I was confused and deeply concerned for my Patty.

All three of us told deep and dark secrets to each other, and I was emotionally exhausted. I assume Michael was as well. Patty, being the most emotional of all of us, was crying like never before. I knew what to say and how to say it the instant I saw Michael’s face, his expression was marked by the deepest compassion. Patty needed to know what I saw in our son’s face.

I looked at Patty and calmly said, “Patty, look at me.” When she did, I continued, “If you had a baby with Robert, he would have abused it. If you had a baby with me, our loving son would not be sitting next to you right now.”

That did not help as she was still crying and moving uncontrollably, as if trapped in the back of the SUV. Her upper body movements were true panic movements, but Michael was there beside her, usually able to hold at least one of her hands at all times. I prepared to get out of the SUV and go to the back seat once the traffic on the road had passed, but Patty's movements and crying quieted down.

Fortunately, Patty stopped moving before I could open the SUV door. When she seemed settled, I told her once more about how having a baby would have meant Michael would not be with us right now. She stopped crying then, fully understanding what I was telling her. She hugged Michael for a long time. It was a touching moment between them, and I was very touched seeing that. All I could do was place my hand on Patty but I would have liked to have been in the back seat as well. My son was there and it was enough.

No one answered but they did not need to. The three of us knew, maybe not in words, but we understood the complicated answer. All of us were so very grateful for each other, and in a way, we were even grateful for what we went through to have the love we share.

Patty quickly composed herself, and I started driving again while Michael remained in the back seat with his mother. They were where they both needed to be, as a mother and son. I knew just by looking at them through the rearview mirror that all of us, our 'porodica,' would do anything for each other, easily die for one another. We were solid like granite.

Soon after the event, Patty then spoke in depth about our family in the present and future. As usual, she was right about everything. The talk we had on the trip back that day about our past was important. Michael and I did not reveal all the really bad things we each went through, but we spoke enough. Patty opened up details none of us were prepared for, but what she said and did in the back seat made us much stronger, it was what the three of us needed.

In high school, our son’s grades were exceptional, all things considered. There were private issues which do not need to be mentioned, but certainly his grades were good enough for him to attend the better colleges in Georgia. He decided that being close to home was best for him. Financially but also because of our unconditional love and support.

I had always assumed he would become a professional photographer, but that was not to be. This was a special moment for us which we still occasionally talk about to this day. It was a perfect day, no leaving cellphones in restaurants to be stolen or denting my car door, it was just a perfect day.

Patty politely interrupted me while I was speaking: “It’s not for him, Mark.” Patty is the voice of reason in the household. A strong mother who sees things I sometimes do not. I thought that we could discuss things further so I understood the advantages and disadvantages.

I looked at Patty then looked at our son. It was clever of Michael to suggest a photoshoot showdown. He was happy, and there was pride in what he truly wanted for his future. Knowing Patty as well as I did, she wanted our son to succeed in whatever profession he chose. They were both were against photography though. It was not defiance or disrespect, it was Michael showing his independence and free thought. Perhaps it was time to let Michael be the man he was becoming. I did not need to be as rigid as my Serbian father was to me. Patty wanted him to do what he wanted, and it was the path my son desired, I understood and agreed but would have some humor first.

I looked at both Patty and Michael, rubbed my chin so they knew I was serious, and said, “We will meet at high noon tomorrow to see who is the best, no shadows, no clouds, just you and I photographing landscape.” I tried to use my best cowboy accent.

When Patty said that, I started laughing, which is rare for me. It was not a big laugh and did not last long, but it quickly turned into a smile. “My son, I was joking about the showdown.”

I decided the time was right. Our son deserved something special to remember this moment of true manhood and his courage to hold onto what he felt was right, his determination to live as he wanted.

I excused myself and returned with a very special gift. It was one of the few things I had left from the suitcase I had brought over to America long ago. Patty saw it first and her smile instantly turned into an open mouth. That open mouth instantly turned to tears, I do not know if they were sad, happy or proud tears but Patty’s face stopped everyone in place.

Michael turned around to face me, wanting to know why I made his mother cry. He saw what I was holding and froze again. With everyone in shock, I knew what I was doing was the perfect thing at the perfect time. “This is yours now to pass on,” I told him. He stared at me, still in complete shock, but he did not cry, after all, he was a man in my eyes.

What I was holding in my hand and giving to Michael was one of two family heirlooms I managed to save. Neither has any real monetary value, but they are priceless to the family. It was a plain, silver-enameled woman’s hair clip which my mother use to wear. It was in my pocket throughout the war, not for protection, but it was a piece of her, even though I did not really know her well, she was my mother.

Michael had seen it occasionally for years and knew its history and significance. But for me to give this to him was a deeply special moment. He fully understood the meaning behind it and why it was his now. It was a special moment for him, one which he earned.

Michael held his grandmother’s hair clip in his hand as though it was a new born baby. He then spoke two phrases in Serbian which I will admit, he executed perfectly, like a native speaker. He must have worked hard to get them right and kept those phrases memorized for just the right moment.

To Patty, those words Michael spoke were nothing she would have recognized but to me, it meant the world. I calmly responded, “Me too and today is special so it is up to you.” I spoke in English as I did not want to spoil things and I knew my son was out of words. In that instant though, I was proud of what he did in speaking so many words correctly in such a hard language.

She looked at us both and started laughing. Her laugh was unusual though and brought back memories of my mother when I was a small child. It was as though she had made a mother laugh in that moment, the special laugh a mother sometimes makes, full of fulfillment and a sense of purpose.

Michael chose Georgia Institute of Technology, however, it did not work out for him. His second choice was Savannah State University, where he began his studies. After two years, he can decide whether to stay or transfer to another school. All of this is up to him, we are just the happy financial backers. His grandfather would also help if Michael asked. Michael could go anywhere in the world but wants to stay close to us.

Some people may think supporting Michael through his education is a foolish idea. He only came into our lives at age fourteen and Patty's and my legal obligations toward him ended at eighteen. If Michael were simply our adopted child, that would make sense. However, he has been our son since the beginning, so those things do not apply to our family.

After his advanced education, I hope my son will have children and raise them knowing both what not to do and more importantly, what to do. Patty and I will be content being grandparents if that is meant to be.

In 2007, one week before Michael was set to start university, something that I knew would eventually happen finally came true. I received a phone call informing me of my father's death. We had our monthly calls, and during those conversations, I noticed that he was in poor health and coughed a lot. Only if I asked him directly would he talk about his kidney problems. He did not die of lung or kidney issues, it was a heart attack. The person on the phone said it happened quickly and publicly, as my father died in the dining hall of the living center.

I was not devastated or destroyed with the news. He had a long life, yet those years did not make it any easier when he passed away. It was both bitter and sweet. As a young boy, my father witnessed the entire Second World War, saw the entire 35-year reign of his hero president Tito, and lived through the rise and fall of Yugoslavia unharmed. I outlived him, which was good because no parent should endure such a loss of their only son.

I have seen a lot of death in my life. People instantly dying, people dying quickly, and people dying in agony. With the executions, I have seen people begging not to die, people being defiant, and many people being reserved and composed, knowing their fate.

With my father, we discussed that this time would come one day, so grieving was perhaps less because we were prepared. Maybe grieving would have been more if we had never been estranged for a decade, but maybe not.

I felt emptiness more than any other emotion. There were times when my mind would interrupt me with memories of Michael, but they were actually comparison memories with my father. I assume grief does that sometimes to process loss of a loved one.

Thoughts like, I am proud to be in the passenger seat with Michael driving. Now being a father, I know the same emotions my father had when he was in the passenger seat with me. Then I think, 'I can never drive my father anywhere again.' Those are the emptiness feelings for me, viewing and comparing my life to his and knowing his is no more. There would be an empty void where my father once was for the rest of my life.

Not talking to him on the phone would be something I would miss. My father was the last person left from Yugoslavia, and now he was gone. I would never speak Serbian to another person again, which added to the emptiness inside me.

Patty and Michael were supportive, yet their presence made me feel a bit uncomfortable. I was sad but not overly sad, I just felt like there was an empty void inside of me. His death was best for him. He was old and knew this day would come. I would still miss him dearly.

I was not naive and knew that Patty and Michael did not know my father very well, other than what I had told them about him. On the phone, they heard an old man who could barely speak English. Even if they knew Serbian fluently, my father was a man of few words, from a generation where everything is implied rather than spoken. Yet, they knew him as grandfather or father-in-law and felt his loss deeply. They also felt for me.

I booked a flight to be with him and see what I could do. On the plane, everyone either left me alone because I looked sad or tried to comfort me like Patty and Michael did. However, I do not remember much about the flight because I was deeply engrossed in my thoughts. I do not really remember anything of that flight.

Upon arrival at the assisted living center, a woman escorted me to his room. It was more of a small, one bedroom apartment than just a single room. When I walked in, the employee must have thought I had mental issues. Since receiving the call about my father's death, I had not been sad but rather felt empty inside. The first thing I saw upon entering his apartment was a TV and to the left, a framed picture of President Tito, my father's hero to the end. I laughed loud enough for the employee to hear and see it. This made me feel no longer so empty.

That picture had always hung in our house, even after my father changed his stance to wanting a Greater Serbia like everyone else. It was just always there, Tito represented my views of a unified Yugoslavia, not a Greater Serbia. For my father to have his portrait proudly displayed to the left of his television decades later and in America, maybe that picture was meant to remind him of me all these years? I would like to think so. If not, at least I knew my father was like me and longed for the past.

There was another possibility I never considered until that very moment, looking at President Tito. He died in 1980, the same year my mother died. When I left my father in 1993, that portrait was still on the wall. Maybe my mother liked him as much as we did? Maybe President Tito was on the wall since my father was not a fan of having pictures there? Maybe something else? I wanted to ask my father if the portrait of President Tito was for me, or my mother, to remember the old times before the wars, or just because President Tito was his hero.

I stopped looking at that portrait on the wall and decided to ask my father which one it was. Looking at the empty apartment, I remembered that my father was dead. I could not ask him that or ask him anything ever again. It was a fleeting emotion that is difficult to describe. Perhaps alone in a leaking boat on the ocean, if you cannot radio for help because you have no power? The radio would work if you only had power. My father was gone and I was unable to ask him anything.

Looking around, his private ‘home’, I realized that I only knew his home while I was growing up. I was not there to see it fall to the enemy, nor did I witness my father moving a few times until he reached this point at the assisted living center. While I would not have wanted my father to live with us, it was interesting to see how he lived with no one to influence him. His choices in furniture and decorations were sparse and boring, I did not know that about him. It looked much like my apartment before I met Patty. I guess it was like father, like son. We both had money but did not spend it unnecessarily.

As I looked through his bedroom, I found that every photo we ever sent him was in the nightstand drawer next to his bed. After he forgave me, I knew that he was proud of me and assumed that he loved Patty and his grandson, even if it was only over the phone. But seeing those photos there somehow confirmed on the deepest level of my heart that my father deeply loved each of us in his own way.

I picked up a few belongings, including that framed picture of president Tito. Rather than leaving it to be thrown away, I thought it best to bring it home to Savannah and bury it with him as I believe my father would have wanted.

President Tito was my father’s hero to the very end. In a way, he was still my hero as well. For both my father and me, he was the only person on earth who could hold Yugoslavia together with unity and stability, and he did it not for years but for decades.

I stayed until the crematorium had his ashes ready for me. They gave me a box containing his remains and recited a brief condolence speech that they likely give everyone in such situations. When I accepted the box, I knew it was over and that his life had come to an end. Although I already knew he was dead, holding that box felt truly final. I felt relief that his suffering was over, but also regret in a way, for all the things left unsaid.

I asked about his wedding ring, and they looked around before coming back to tell me that it was nowhere to be found. I expected this given that thieves often rob the elderly, even in America. It must have been stolen either at the living center or by the man standing in front of me. Since getting the ring back was hopeless, I just left. Michael would simply have to buy a new shiny ring when his time came to marry.

The flight back home was long so it gave me time to process what had just happened. My father died, and I was taking him home to Savannah with me. That was a lot to unexpectedly happen; I knew it would happen one day but did not think that day would ever come.

I am not ashamed of leaving Dragan where he fell, nor of leaving poor Addy and others whose names do not need mentioning. They were all left where they fell. My loving mother had a big funeral and a physical grave, but her grave was likely desecrated by the enemy. I do not dwell on the condition of her grave. Despite this, I felt an emptiness, which was normal, but had no ideas on what to do with my father's ashes for the entire flight back.

When I arrived in Savannah that evening, Patty and Michael were waiting for me at the airport. They could see my mood had improved as I walked over to them. On the short ride to our home, I told them everything went well and also mentioned the photos of us in his nightstand, which he certainly cherished. We were somber for a moment about the photographs.

For them, I think they felt pride or perhaps honor, or maybe regret over missed opportunities. However, I was not certain what they felt. They were quiet and reflective, as was I. It was awkward but important for us to be reflective and understand how much we truly meant to my father. I would discuss the rest at a later time.

I worried about how to break the news to Michael that he would not get his grandfather’s wedding ring. That still bothered me, but it was a minor problem. I did not even tell Michael about the ring, but it was important to me that I told him my intentions. One day, he would get married and start his own family.

When we were in our home, I did not even put my bags away. Patty escorted us to the kitchen. They both had a surprise for me. Patty made holiday bread using a recipe Michael found on the internet. Instead of feeling sad or thinking about the past, their thoughtful gesture of welcoming me home with old world, holiday bread filled me with contentment for my family. That is what 'porodica' is all about, strengthening each other. It was a touching moment for all three of us.

Later, I unpacked my luggage and saw the box containing my father’s ashes. Holding it brought out my buried emotions for the first time. As a man and even alone with no one around, I did not cry with these emotions, but there was pain, sorrow and grief. Physically, I felt like I was in free fall, dropping from a height, but emotionally, I wanted to cry yet held it back. My father and mother were now both gone. I had to be strong though, I pushed those feelings aside and redirected everything into something constructive. I knew how to make my mother happy.

I walked into the living room with the box of my father's ashes, and carefully placed it on the coffee table. I told Patty that I would return shortly. I went into another room and selected several white candles, bringing them to my father’s ashes and placing them around the box. Patty and Michael wanted to know what I was doing. I explained that even though we were not religious, we would have a proper Serbian vigil. Not for us but for my mother’s sake. They did not say a word, as what could one say to that?

I lit the candles because my mother believed that placing many candles around a dead body or, in our case, my father’s ashes would light his soul's journey to Heaven. That was what she believed and would have wanted, so that is what I did.

I explained what little I remembered about Eastern Orthodox Christian funeral practices to Patty and Michael. I told them we might not understand it, but my mother would. As a loyal son, I wanted to do this for her, and together, we would honor her wishes. That was my noble idea, but since I knew little about funeral practices, what I said did not last long. All of us were looking at the lit candles around my father’s ashes, with the funeral home label under the box. I did not even know if lit candles were appropriate since his real body was no longer there, only ashes.

Michael eventually went to bed, leaving Patty and me in the living room watching TV. I was still unsure whether to spread my father’s ashes or not, so I turned off the television and asked Patty what would be best for him.

Patty suggested either keeping them in our living room or spreading them on the beach. I told her I had another idea, maybe we could bury my father in the backyard of our home. His framed photo of Tito would go into the hole first, followed by his ashes?

She again suggested driving to the beach and spreading his ashes there. But I had mental images of NATO turning people into nothingness with their powerful air bombings during the war. I did not want my father to become nothingness.

I then thought of something involving the water that felt more comfortable for me. In the Atlantic Ocean, no one owns it, someone may own it a bit closer to shore but we could go further out than twelve miles. His ashes could remain undisturbed there, forever free from any territorial disputes. It would be our family's first burial at sea, not spreading of ashes but a proper burial. The more I considered it, the more I liked the idea. I decided to hire a private charter boat and take us twelve miles off the coast of the Atlantic Ocean where we would bury him with his picture of Tito.

The charter boat took us far out into the ocean, and I made sure we were well over twelve miles from shore. The pilot stopped the boat and stayed at the helm while the three of us had a brief remembrance ceremony. Although Patty and Michael never actually met my father in person, they knew him enough from their monthly phone calls to say a few touching words. I spoke as well, but in Serbian. Not for privacy reasons but out of respect. Once we were finished remembering him this way, I placed the sealed box containing my father’s ashes along with his beloved framed picture of president Tito into a backpack weighted with rocks and gently and respectfully put him into the ocean.

Watching it sink out of view, my father was gone but his memory would stay with each of us. No one cried as there was no need. From now on, he would be a part of our ‘porodica’ in a remembrance sort of way.

I expected the trip back to shore to be quiet, but Michael started asking pointed questions about my father growing up. Patty also wanted to know more about her father-in-law, Filip and his wife, Nadia. I spoke a lot. While Michael may have initially thought it would be good for me to talk about him to help me emotionally, within a minute, they were both fascinated by what I had to tell them about our family back then. As the patriarch of the family, I was happy and honored to share these stories.

My father was gone but that was for the best, it was not a sad time, I was just empty for a while. I hope Patty and Michael are the same when it is my turn. Not being religious, I would have no problem with a burial at sea but will leave that decision to them.

'Porodica' is not simply another word for family, 'porodica' is the true core of a family. It is not just blood relations but those who choose to stand by us through both war and peace. It is about the closest of emotional ties, unity, communal loyalty, unwavering support, and everything you read about me, Patty, Michael, my parents, Dragan, and his sweet wife, Anja. That is ‘porodica’.

Like all families, we have had trying times. Each of us has tested each other in bad ways, but in the end, it was the ‘porodica’ inside us that kept us together. All three of us were broken in our own ways when we met, and now we are as solid as granite.

In my father’s time, something like this would be told around the fireplace when their child came of age. To share their history, honest stories passed down from grandparents who lived through various wars but still found ways to build new lives. These were lessons about our roots, keeping us connected to those who came before.

There is no epic or grand ending. My father taught me that if you brag about doing a good deed, the deed loses all value. I do not brag or boast about myself anywhere in what you read, but will certainly praise Anja. Out of respect, I did not write about her, but without her, my family would not be together now. It was Anja, not me, who made our 'porodica' possible. She made our story possible. If there was ever a hero, it was certainly Anja, my sister whom I never met.

Porodica

Porodica

Chapter 1 - Growing Up

Chapter 2 - Civil Wars

Chapter 3 - Leaving Home

Chapter 4 - The Long Year

Chapter 5 - The Story of Addy

Chapter 6 - The Apartment Building

Chapter 7 - A Can Of Fruit

Chapter 8 - Dragan

Chapter 9 - UN Ceasefire

Chapter 10 - The Bad Thing

Chapter 11 - Personal Shame

Chapter 12 - The Aftermath

Chapter 13 - America

Intermission

Chapter 14 - Patty

Chapter 15 - The Beach

Chapter 16 - Our Home

Chapter 17 - First Christmas

Chapter 18 - Old Scars

Chapter 19 - Adoption

Chapter 20 - Grandson

Chapter 21 - Michael

Chapter 22- Daily Life

Chapter 23 - Honor

Chapter 24 - Opening Up

Chapter 25 - Patty’s Turn

Chapter 26 - Growth

Chapter 27 - Father

Chapter 28 - The Funeral

Chapter 29 - The Future Of Porodica