In a small village nestled in the rolling hills of the Balkans, Mile returned home after a long day of tending to the sheep. Usually, his wife, Marica, would be waiting at the gate with a pitcher of cold water or shouting instructions about the firewood.

There sat Marica, but not at the stove. She was slumped in a chair, a colorful wool rug half-finished on the loom beside her. Her face was pale, and she held a crumpled letter in her hand. For a moment, Mile feared the worst—had the tax collector come? Had her mother decided to move in?

Marica stood up, her sorrow forgotten. She threw on her new vest, grabbed her husband’s hand, and they danced in the kitchen until the sun went down. The "disaster" had turned into the best party the village had seen all year.

"Šta bi, ženo?" (What happened, woman?) Mile called out as he entered the kitchen.