In an electronic-mail exchange with Marko, which has taken a few days and a few rounds already, he complains that I pay little real attention to the people close to me, including my own children. With the exception of my mother, he hastens to add. I am not sure how to interpret his complaint, but I am even more perplexed by his exception. Am I really paying that much more attention to my mother than to my father, given the palpable differences in their rôles in my upbringing? Or is Marko incapable of appreciating my somewhat old-fashioned ways? Is that a matter of generations or culture—American versus, say, the Balkan? Or, is my mother a truly exceptional person, a saint of sorts, who draws to herself most people, no matter where they are from, how old they are, what social circle they belong to, and so on? Or, am I actually closer to my mother than one would consider acceptable—or, indeed, normal—under any relevant social, historical, and cultural circumstances? Or, ultimately, is he a tad jealous? No prize for guessing which of these options, or combination thereof, I would go for.