On our way to our morning coffee, my beloved and I cross one of the squares in central Zagreb. At one end, there is a small crowd around an improvised stage. Several women in their twenties and thirties are on it, but only one of them is speaking into a microphone. “The first time I felt the baby move in my belly, he was watching television,” she says. “When I told him I had something to tell him, he did not budge. When I addressed him again, he got up and started beating me.” Another woman from the stage comes forward and starts beating her. She falls to the ground and continues: “I was so afraid, I put vases with flowers around my bed. Instead of going to the toilet, I peed into the vases.” When we enter our café, my beloved sighs: “Family violence.” But then she continues the story: “As it turned out, the baby was not his, and the flowers died from all the pee…” We chuckle, and the waiter who knows us well brings everything we need without a word. “And it all happened while we were crossing the square,” I mutter.