My father called yesterday. It was Sunday. He will be eighty in May. Bad news, I guessed immediately. He would never call just like that. Last Monday my mother fell in her room and broke her hip. She hurt her head in two places, too. Approaching her eighties, she either tripped or had a temporary blackout. She claims she took an awkward step and fell over her slipper. He thinks she fainted. When he returned home two hours later, my father found her on the floor. She was semi-conscious, exhausted after many unsuccessful attempts to call for help. Still well connected, he managed to find her a place in a Belgrade hospital. She was operated last Friday, and will have to remain hospitalized for three more weeks. He said she had been a hero. I told him I knew. He said they did not want to worry me. I told him I wanted to know everything. I asked him whether there was anything I could do. He said there was nothing I could do. A standard story, exactly as I expected it. Except for the two interminable hours on the floor. My father told me to take good care of my lady. She is very pregnant. Less than three months to go. I told him I would.