Short stories – Sanela Ramic Jurich

A Valentine for the Soul

Posted on February 13, 2026 by Sanela

Posted in Between the Worlds, New blog post, Sanela Ramic Jurich, Short stories

In between the known and unknown, I find my soul, forever grown.

What if when we leave this life, we don’t go to heaven…
but to a place in between lives.

A place where we rest.
Where we reunite with the souls we’ve loved.
Where we laugh, travel, eat, and exist freely.

Not as angels.
But as humans—still imperfect, still longing, still loving.

Have you ever met someone for the first time and felt like you’ve known them forever?
Against all odds, you know deep inside that you know them.
They feel familiar. Comforting.
You are drawn to them… but you’ve only just met.

How can that be?
Is it a karmic connection?
Soulmates?
A trick of the mind… or something science has yet to explain?
Is it fate—or simply love refusing to forget?

Here is a short story I wrote, inspired by a pair of eyes whose shade of blue is out of this world.
I hope it finds your heart this Valentine’s Day. ❤️

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Author Sanela Ramic Jurich

View Sanela's complete profile

When A Story Refuses To Stay Silent

Posted on January 11, 2026 by Sanela

Posted in Books, New blog post, New Year, Sanela Ramic Jurich

I woke up this morning with an irresistible need to write.

The kind of urge that won’t let you focus on anything else. And you know me—once the urge strikes, I have no choice but to obey. There is no way around it. Even though it can feel a little imprisoning, it is also like nothing else. It is pure love. Pure life. I don’t think there are words big enough to fully describe that feeling.

All it took was a message from a faithful reader to stir me up and set my imagination in motion.

The story they’re referring to is a short love story I wrote many years ago for Valentine’s Day. I shared it on my blog back then, and since it didn’t receive many comments, I quietly placed it on the back burner—where so many things we care about end up waiting.

But stories, like love, don’t always stay where you put them.

This particular story—like all the stories I write—was inspired by real people. A real couple. Unfortunately, their real-life story never received a happy ending, so I wrote one for them. Sometimes, that’s the only way I know how to cope: by giving love the ending it deserved.

So, for the reader who reminded me… and for the story that refused to stay silent—

Here it is. Continue reading →

Three Lives in One

Posted on October 7, 2025 by Sanela

Posted in New blog post, Sanela Ramic Jurich, Short stories

I’ve often felt like I’ve lived three lives in this one.

Today what would have been my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary brings back memories

At times, I feel three hundred years old — tired, so, so tired — from all the ups and downs, the endless lessons this life keeps teaching me.

My first life seems so long ago. I was born on another continent, in a country that no longer exists. As an only child, I was spoiled by my parents and grandparents. I had everything a child could wish for.

I loved going to school, spending time with friends, and dreaming big. Still, I often felt lonely — I wished for a sibling, someone to share secrets with. To fill the quiet, I’d create imaginary worlds in my head, inventing stories and writing them down.

Then, when I was fourteen / fifteen, my country exploded — quite literally. What had once been a single nation suddenly fractured. Former states wanted to be independent countries, free from the communist regime. And just like that, all hell broke loose.

I won’t depress you with the details of that time — if you want to know more, you can read or listen to my book Remember Me.

Life Two: The Love That Built — and Broke — Me

My second life began twenty-five years ago today, October 7th of 2000. I was twenty-three, getting married to the love of my life. I was happy — truly happy — even though nightmares from my first life still visited me every night.

We met a year before. I was rushing out of work one day when I heard a quiet voice behind me:
“Are you from Europe?”

I was wearing a black coat, my hair cut in a long black bob — I was in my goth era. I was in a hurry to go home and finish homework. I had just started a credit program at Truman College after several years of ESL. Between school and a full-time job, there wasn’t much time for romance.

“Yes, why?” I asked, slightly irritated.

He hesitated. “Uh, you look English.”

“But I’m not,” I mumbled. “Europe is not just England, you know.”

“Oh, yeah? So where are you from?”

“You wouldn’t know even if I told you,” I said, rolling my eyes. He had no accent — just a Chicago boy with blond hair, blue eyes, and an easy grin.

“Try me,” he said.

“Yugoslavia,” I answered, quietly, certain he’d have no clue where that was.

“Huh!” he exclaimed. “Me too!”

“Yeah, right.” I rolled my eyes again and headed for the door.

“No, really,” he said, jumping in front of me, pointing to his name tag.
“Jurich,” it read.

“Yurich,” I whispered, pronouncing it in perfect Croatian.

“See? Told you we’re from the same country,” he said, grinning ear to ear.

The next time I saw him, I greeted him with a cheerful “Dobar dan.”
He looked puzzled — had no idea what it meant. And in that moment, I knew he wasn’t really “from my country.”

Later, he explained his ancestors — on his father’s side — had come to America in 1902. Each generation had one son, so the last name lived on. He was born and raised in Chicago, proudly calling himself “a mutt.”

I loved him. I loved everything about him.

Within a year, we were married.

Two kids and twenty years later, we divorced.

My entire adult life had been spent with this man. He filled every empty space in my heart — the sibling I never had, my best friend, my confidant, my therapist. He held me through the nightmares. For twenty years, he was my world. Together, we built our little empire.

While he started his own business, I got laid off and became a stay-at-home mom. I was happy — with my two beautiful boys and a husband I adored. I thanked God every day for that little world we built.

But life has a way of shifting beneath your feet.
He developed an addiction — a disease he couldn’t shake. We tried. I tried. But I couldn’t save him, and he didn’t want to be saved.

Addiction took everything. Every possession, every piece of peace.

When life was done chewing me up, it spit me out — broken, alone, with two young boys depending on me to save them.

They were my reason to break free.

The divorce dragged on for over a year, and by the time it was final, I was left standing in the ruins of what once was us. — and $25,000 in debt from legal fees.

Starting from scratch, I found a job close to home so I could be there for my kids. The first offer that came, I took it. Minimum wage. I thought I’d move up quickly, but finding a better job means taking time off to interview — time I couldn’t afford. Two years later, I was still making that same amount of money, so I got myself second job. Working two jobs, never being home with my sons.

Life, it seemed, had it out for me.

Life Three: The Now

And that brings me to life number three — the now.

No husband. My sons are grown, working, and paying their own way through college. I started a new career — the best gig I’ve ever had — but sometimes I wonder if I’m too old for new beginnings. Still, I’m surrounded by kind people who are willing to help, and that makes the journey a little easier.

I feel three hundred years old, and yet, the world still rests on my shoulders. I am exhausted.

I’m still learning to live without him. Still learning how to let my sons go. Still learning how to trust life again.

But I’m here. I’m still standing. And I’m still learning.

Today what would have been my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary brings back memories — the good ones, the kind that hurt a little more than the bad ones do. Because when something was once beautiful, its absence aches in a special way.

The other day, a friend who’s contemplating divorce asked if I had any advice.

“No,” I said. “I have no right to give advice to anyone. The only person I have a right to advise is my younger self.”

And if I could go back, I would still marry the same man. Because that marriage gave me the two greatest gifts of my life — my sons.

The only difference?
I probably wouldn’t get married legally. I’d just live in sin.
(But don’t tell my parents I said that, haha.)

Because then, maybe, I wouldn’t have ended up $25,000 in debt.

What Hurt the Most

Of all the pain life has thrown my way — the war, the years as a refugee, the loneliness of starting over in a foreign country, being bullied for my accent until I learned to stay quiet — nothing, nothing cut as deep as the betrayal of my husband. No pain comes close. And believe me, I know pain. His betrayal shattered me in a way that no bomb, no border, no cruel word ever could. Because this wasn’t a war outside of me — it was a war inside my home, inside my heart.

But here’s the part I want you to remember: even after all that, I’m still here. I still laugh. I still love. I still believe that life, despite all its heartbreak, can be beautiful again. Every scar I carry reminds me that I survived. Every tear I’ve shed watered something inside me that now blooms quietly — strength, compassion, peace.

So if you’re reading this and you’re in the middle of your own storm, please know this: one day, you’ll breathe again. You’ll laugh again. You’ll wake up and realize that the pain that once threatened to destroy you has become the very reason you stand taller.

Because even after three lives and three hundred years of lessons, I’m still learning that the heart — no matter how many times it breaks — never stops trying to love again.

With all my love,
Sanela

About Me

Author Sanela Ramic Jurich

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Surviving the Unthinkable: Remembering the Koričani Cliffs Massacre

Posted on August 20, 2023 by Sanela

Posted in Bosnia, Genocide, New blog post, Prijedor, Sanela Ramic Jurich, Short stories

The Koričani Cliffs massacre was the mass murder of more than 200 Bosniak and Croat men on August 21, 1992, during the Yugoslav War, at the Koričani Cliffs on Mount Vlašić in central Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Here is my own memory of that day: August 21, 1992 (five days before my sixteenth birthday)

Families honor Koricani Cliffs victims by throwing 200 roses down the abyss

We took just a change of clothing with us. My father’s friend told us not to bother bringing anything else, because it would be taken away anyway. He was there to show us which truck was the safest one for us. My father had to go sit at the front of the truck with other men, and my mother and I sat in the back with women. It was so crowded; I half-sat on mother’s lap. They covered the truck with some brown tarp and off we went.

It was an unbearably scorching August day, the air thick with a suffocating heat that clung to our skin like a second layer. We were crammed together, pressed against one another like frightened animals seeking refuge, yet there was no escape from the oppressive closeness. The stench of sweat mingled with the acrid smell of fear as we huddled beneath a tattered tarp, trying to shield ourselves from the harsh sun that beat down mercilessly.

In that stifling darkness, my stomach churned with a mixture of nausea and anxiety. The bag that held our final remnants of belongings became my reluctant confidante, bearing witness to the physical and emotional turmoil within me. I retched into it, my body betraying me as the revulsion and dread threatened to overwhelm every fiber of my being.

Horror Revisited: Exhuming the Bones of a Bosnian Massacre

Amidst the agony of the moment, a different kind of urgency surfaced—my desperate need to relieve myself. The very core of my being seemed to ache with the necessity, as if every discomfort I felt was a microcosm of the larger suffering we were enduring. Each passing second felt like an eternity, my bladder aching as if it held not only my own desperation but the collective weight of our shattered lives.

A little while later, we stopped moving. An armed soldier peeked in, waving his gun. He demanded someone to come out and be his helper. After a few torturous moments of hoping and praying I wouldn’t get to be the chosen one, the soldier pointed a gun at “Him” and demanded “He” be his helper for the day.

“He” was my very first crush and the inspiration for Johnny’s character in Remember Me and Haunting from the Past.

The soldier handed him a bag and ordered him to go around and make sure people put all their valuables into the bag.

That went on the whole ride: they would stop the convoy every few minutes to steal from us. People ran out of things to give, so they started putting nail clippers and toothbrushes into the bag.

The soldier ordered us to lift up our shirts to make sure we weren’t hiding anything there. And I wanted to die. At that moment, I wished I could just die. I would have preferred “Him” to see me dead rather than with my shirt lifted up. When he got to where I was sitting, he opened up the bag, but he closed his eyes. I had to lift up my shirt. The soldier watched the whole time; I figured he would rather humiliate me than kill me. But “He”… he must have seen my humiliation, and so he closed his eyes. He will never know how much that meant to me.

Another anniversary of the crime on Koricani cliffs: Roses thrown into the abyss

The pain we endured transcended the physical, burrowing deep into our souls. It was a pain that defied words, leaving only a raw and unrelenting ache. As the hours dragged on, I couldn’t help but wonder how humans could inflict such suffering upon one another. The soldier’s demands, the humiliation, the theft—it all seemed like a twisted manifestation of humanity’s darkest aspects.

And then, in the midst of this nightmare, my gaze met “his” for one final moment. In those fleeting seconds, a world of unspoken emotions passed between us. His eyes held not just the fear and despair that clouded our lives, but also an inexplicable shame—as if we were the guilty ones, as if surviving this ordeal was itself a transgression.

The last stop the convoy made (before reaching our destination) was on Koričanske Stijene on Mount Vlašić. The Serb soldiers pointed their guns at all the men they wanted to take out and kill. “He,” too, was one of the chosen ones. He was seventeen.

The Serb army slaughtered over 250 innocent, unarmed (civilian) men that day.

The rest of us were taken to the other side of the mountain and thrown onto a field of mines…

The memory of that day continues to haunt me, an indelible mark etched upon my soul. The Koričani Cliffs massacre wasn’t just a historical event; it was a canvas of suffering, painted with the hues of fear, anguish, and desperation. Even now, years later, the weight of that day presses upon my heart, a reminder that the scars of such horrors never truly fade.

Keeping in touch

Posted on October 2, 2022 by Sanela

Posted in Sanela Ramic Jurich

SANELA AT HOME, BOYS, THE OUTDOORS

“Dear friend, it’s been a while since we last heard from each other. How have you been?”

Around here, we’ve got a routine going, and routines always keep me steadier. I’m writing away, and that always keeps me sane. Now I’m working on a prequel to Remember Me—and no! I’m not telling you anything about it yet, except that, It is Sabina and Ivan’s story and it takes place in, you guessed it, pre-and-during war in Yugoslavia. I am not letting the world forget about the genocide they let happen in the early 1990’s Balkans “and that’s all I have to say about that,” as Forest Gump would say.

Other than that, not much is happening in my corner of the world.

Weekends are for cleaning, cooking, baking. Not much gardening this year as herds—and I mean herds—of rabbits gobbled up most of my garden. Nothing stopped them this year. Twice I went out and chased about ten away. They didn’t leave me much except for some cherry tomatoes.

My apple tree, on the other hand, has given me so much produce this year, I’ve harvested, chopped and made all kinds of apple goodies and still there is more to share with squirrels, neighbors and friends.

Hanging out with my sons is always fun. Even the teenager’s been coming out of his hole more often to hang out with me, which makes me feel so good inside I can barely breathe.

Every time I see his tall figure emerge from his room, I hold my breath and hope for the best.

“Wanna watch a movie or something?” He said to me this Friday night, surprising me so much I almost chocked on a piece of pie I was eating.

“Sure,” I managed to answer calmly, while jumping up and down from joy inside.

We went to Rolling Stones store in Chicago the other day and he purchase a DVD of a movie called The Shining. He wanted to watch and compare it to the book he’s currently reading, The Shining by Stephen King.

Even thought I don’t really like horror movies, I agreed on watching it since he was the one to ask me and I’d do anything for him, even if it means sit down and watch a horror flick by Stephen King. And yes, he also talked me into watching IT with him one time to “face my fears” and cure my phobia of clowns. All I can say about that is that it was a very, very bad idea.

Anyway, we watched the movie and he wasn’t very impressed because, surprise-surprise, it wasn’t like the book, which he’s absolutely in love with.

On Saturday, Denny, my college kid, decided he wanted to cook. We’ve been talking about going to Louisiana on vacation. We wanted to visit various restaurants and try all kinds of exotic foods we never tried before. Denny, being a real foodie, decided not to wait to go to Louisiana to try gumbo, but to look up a recipe online and make it himself. After watching a few tons of videos on You Tube, he came up with his own recipe for a gumbo, which, I must admit, came out surprisingly great. Not one drop was left in that pot and we all wanted more. Maybe next weekend…

Devin and I enjoying the weather while waiting for Denny’s gumbo to be done.

Other than that, we cleaned, mowed the loan, harvested some more apples and decorated for Halloween. I even baked an old fashioned apple cake while they found the time to work on an old Celica they’re not giving up on. Needed a jump and some gas, but it’s still going strong.

That’s really about it from my home front. I’m going to relax in my clean house for awhile now!

Love always,

Sanela

P.S.

I Forgot to mention how absolutely ecstatic I am about my book, Remember Me, coming out in audio soon. Here’s a short audio snippet for you. Enjoy!

A short taste of Remember Me

Posted on September 3, 2022 by Sanela

Posted in Books, Freebies, Remember Me, Sanela Ramic Jurich, Short stories

“I know the feeling of confusion and betrayal. I know the feeling of fearing for my life.”

~Jason Reynolds

There’s something to be said about finding someone who just gets you. There’s really nothing like it. Finding that person is the same feeling as coming home. You just feel comfortable. You feel like you can relax and be who you really are. They’re exactly what you’ve been missing.

As I contemplate about which story to write about today, I am feeling lonely. I am feeling betrayed by someone I love. I am feeling confused and scared. I am feeling … blah, and so, what I need today is some Johnny-therapy. Every time I get betrayed by someone I love, I go back to the memory of him to remind myself that it is possible to be loved by someone so completely that you don’t have to censor what you say around them because they get you and they love you anyway. You can be as goofy as you want around them and they will love you anyway. You can cry and fall apart in-front of them and they will still love you anyway … finding a person like that is rare.

For me, a little Johnny therapy is what’s desperately needed this weekend. It’s what’s necessary to get me through to the next chapter of my life. So, instead of coming up with a new inspirational story to tell you today, I am bringing Johnny back to life instead.

Here’s a short excerpt from my favorite book.

Enjoy!

Pg 205-207 in Remember Me

The door to his office was open, and as I walked in, I saw this tall, handsome, blond man holding the phone to his ear and talking loudly. There was a faint accent in his voice. He had his back turned to me, but his voice was enough to tell me it was him. It was my Johnny. I couldn’t stop the tears from embarrassing me; they flew out of my eyes like rivers before he even turned to face me. I felt like I was about to have a heart attack. My mind was telling me it was impossible and that I was finally losing it, but my heart – my heart was humming, slowly wrapping around his voice, soaking it in, treasuring it. He turned… slowly dropping the phone to the floor. Shock was all over his face as he just stood there, obviously stunned. The sight of him made me catch my breath. Though his blond hair was now expertly trimmed, and his body had filled out; he still had the most mesmerizing blue eyes I’d ever seen, looking even more like a god than before. I noticed the one dimple he had when he smiled. His one flaw – a dimple on only one side, his left. To me it wasn’t a flaw at all; it just made him look even more adorable.

“Selma,” he whispered, as if he was afraid if he spoke louder or moved I’d suddenly disappear. I couldn’t say anything from fear of sobbing loudly, so we just stood there looking at each other, neither one making the first move for a few moments. Then, finally, he walked gradually toward me. The nightmare I’d had for years popped into my head, and I thought to myself that if this was another tribulation and he suddenly disappeared, I’d die. My heart would break, and I wouldn’t recover from this one.

“Selma,” he repeated softly, finally reaching me.

“Hi…” was all I could whimper out as my whole body trembled, mostly from the closeness of him and a little from the shock it just went through. The hug he gave me was soft at first, but it became stronger and stronger with each passing second. His arms were wrapped around me tightly; I thought he’d break my rib cage, but I didn’t mind if he did. I wanted him close, closer. I was afraid if I let go, I’d never be able to hold him like that again. I had millions of questions on my mind and knew nothing about this grown-up Johnny. For all I knew he was happily married. Oh, how I hoped he wasn’t.

Selfish–I was so selfish to hope that….

Hope this short excerpt brightens up your day a little. It’s certainly putting a smile to my face.

Thanks for hanging out with me.

Love always,

Sanela

AGED TO PERFECTION

Posted on August 20, 2022 by Sanela

Posted in Remember Me, Sanela Ramic Jurich, Short stories

“We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us.” ~Marcel Proust

As my birthday approaches, so does my anxiety. Not for the reasons one might think. I’m not afraid of getting old or dying. I’ve faced death more times than I can count and it no longer scares me. It taunts me at times though. When I wish for it and beg for it to come and end the misery, it laughs in my face. It squeezes so hard sometimes, it feels like my soul is about to leave my body. Then it eases its grip on me as it grins and whispers: no, not just yet, you haven’t suffered enough yet. There are more lessons to be learned, still.

No, death does not cause my anxiety any more. Death feels like a sweet release. Freedom. My anxiety is caused by life and the evil that exists in it. In my experience, birthdays are reminders of the evil that plagues the human nature.

Someone once said to me that birthdays are a celebration of sheer privilege of being alive and, although, I truly am grateful for all the years of life I’ve lived after my sixteenth birthday, I still can’t escape this immense ache in my heart that seems to be getting stronger with each passing year; every single year my birthday rolls around.

My sixteenth Birthday — Bosnia 1992

The day I left my home country forever was August 26, 1992. It was my sixteenth birthday.

As I stood on the street, waiting for a bus to take me away to an unknown hell, I was feeling ashamed of my own thoughts. I was brooding over my birthday. I was being a typical sixteen-year-old; a teenager. I wanted a birthday party. I wanted my friends and family to fuss over me. I wanted the sweet in the “sweet-sixteenth.” Why could’t I have all that?! Why was I being robbed of that?! For whom?! Instead of getting a birthday party, I was being forced out of my home. Being forced to watch as evil men killed my family, friends, neighbors. Being forced out of my freedom! Had to stay quiet as they called me names and tried to touch me inappropriately — had to let them do it! Had to keep quiet as they stole every single possession my parents and I owned. Why?! For whom?! For what?!

Five days before … August 21, 1992, I was in a convoy that was transporting me from my home-town, Prijedor to Travnik. It was supposed to be a safe passage, but half way to our destination, the Serb army stopped the convoy, forcing over 250 men and boys out of it and killing them in a place called Koričanske Stijene on Mount Vlašić. The rest of us were taken to the other side of the mountain and thrown onto the field of mines. (Read Remember Me).

The walk down the mountain was very long and tiring. My mom tripped and fell so many times … I had to pee so badly, I could barely walk. When it got dark out, we weren’t allowed to turn on any flashlights because if we did, the Serb army could see us. They were already throwing grenades over our heads, trying to guess where exactly we were. I remember some guy lighting a cigarette and three other men jumping up and tackling him to the ground. The cigarette was going to give our whereabouts away.

When we left home, we took nothing with us. We had no money and no belongings. All was taken away. (Read Remember Me).

And so I just stood there — at the bus-stop — hopelessly. Feeling as if someone had dumped a bucket of manure on my head. Feeling guilty for wanting something better for myself on my birthday as if I hadn’t just witnessed a mass murder take place only five days before.

My mom, noticing the look on my face, leaned closer and whispered: “Sanela, you’re alive. We’re alive. Isn’t that something to celebrate? We’re leaving hell on your birthday. That’s something, isn’t it?”

I stood quiet as her words made me feel worse, not better as she intended.

I felt hatred, but not toward the men who forced us out of our home, but toward myself. I wasn’t good enough to have a party. To celebrate my sweet sixteenth like all the other kids my age did and at the same time, I felt guilty for even wanting it now while all this misery was going on around me.

“It could be worse,” she continued. “We must hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.”

“What do you mean it could be worse?!” I snapped, “why do you always have to say that?! How about this, from now on you say, it could be better! Huh?! Maybe then it’ll start getting better, not worse!”

I turned my back to her, not wanting to talk any more. I felt even worse than before. I realized I had hurt her. She was only trying to make me feel better. She didn’t know anything either. She didn’t want this for me, I knew, but she was an easy target for me to take some frustration out on. She forgave me, I’m sure. She probably doesn’t even remember those words spoken in so much pain, but I do and I still feel guilty for dragging her down to that hell with me as if she didn’t have enough to deal with herself.

A few minutes later, I heard someone calling my name. Turning around I noticed a boy a couple of years older than I, whom I’d just met a day before, running to catch up as the bus we were waiting on slowly approached.

He was out of breath when he finally reached me. Almir was his name. I only remembered him because when he had introduced himself the day before, I’d noticed a hole in his forehead. It looked as if someone had scooped up half of his forehead and covered the hole with skin. After he had introduced himself, we had talked for a little bit. He had explained to me that the hole in his head was created by a shrapnel from a grenade that fell on his house killing his mother and two sisters.

It could be worse. My mom’s words rang in my head as I watched him approach.

“I have something for you,” he said earnestly, “Happy Birthday.”

He handed me something wrapped up in newspaper. “Don’t open it just yet. Wait until I’m gone.”

My voice was filled with emotion as I asked how he knew it was my birthday.

“Your cousin told me last night,” he smiled, “although it’s not much, it’s something to remind you you’re not alone. Be happy on your day Sanela,” he smiled sadly adding, “birthdays are a celebration of privilege of being alive and that’s what we are. Alive. We get to live another day. To meet some new people. To love. If nothing else, then to see what happens next.”

I’ve lived by those words every day of my life since, always wanting to see what happens next.

And so, as my 46th birthday approaches, I am thrilled to report that I am better than ever. It took me a while to get here, but here I am, basking in awesomeness. Despite everything, I came out beautiful and strong.

Cheers to the next 46!

Sanela

“I truly believe that I survived for one reason and one reason only: to tell our story, to give a voice to those who don’t have it anymore. I was there as a witness. As a survivor, I have an obligation. I have to talk about what had happened in Prijedor, Bosnia back in 1992, no matter the cost!” ~Sanela Ramic Jurich