I was nervous. I never am nervous. Even in Korea, I was not nervous. I was scared, but never nervous.

For the first time in my life, I am meeting my son. I had no clue I had this son. It thrills me that I have a kid as well as two grandchildren. It has only been 11 months since he, Eric, wrote me, but in that short year, a lifetime has been lived.

The cab stops. This is it. I look at my hands. They are shaking and sweaty. I wipe them on my pants. Gulping, I get out. Paying the taxi driver, I walk away from the cab, which drives off in haste. I look around the ranch. I have never been to Montana nor have I been on a ranch. I am impressed and I feel instantly at home, just like I do at Crabapple Cove.

There is an expanse of land. It goes on and on and I have no idea where his land stops and the next ranchers land begins, but that is OK. The only plot-defining marker is a long, white fence, which stretches along like the yard does. A brick path leads up to their two-story house. It is white with red shutters and red brick foundation. A large L-shaped porch wraps around it. There is a swing and a nice set of wicker furniture. It is all white. Next to the home is a huge oak tree. A tire swing is tied to one of its larger branches as is a wooden swing.

"He sure has made himself a good home," I muse as I enter through the white gate. I stop. I have no idea what to do. I do not see anyone. I glance at the house. A curtain moves and I see the flash of raven curls. It is gone in an instant and I am not sure if the person was there or if I had imagined it.

The next moment, the front door opens. The little, black curly haired girl sat perched on her father's hip. She was dressed in a blue gingham dress and was barefoot. Her eyes shined blue and bright.

"Hello," the father says. This had to be Eric. He looked like me with black hair and blue eyes. He was tall and gangly to boot, but his nose was smaller by just a fraction, and he was more muscular then I ever was. I could tell though, this was my son. "Hello dad," he said, unsure, "You look like me."

I laugh. "I look like you? You look like me," I say. A grin forms. "You must be Theresa."

The girl nods her head. The curls bounce. A fond smile plays on her face.

Eric walks towards me. He is limping. Fatherly worry comes over. "I'm OK. I was shot in Vietnam. It tore a muscle and a few nerves. But, it sent me home before anything worse could happen."

I do not like the answer. I do not press. I do not have time to anyway. A woman, one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, come out of the house holding a little boy. Her hair was dark brown and chocolate. Her eyes shined like two emeralds. She wore a simple dress and apron. "You must be Hawkeye," she said. Her accent was southern and soft. "I'm Jo. I'm glad to meet you, sir. This is Ben. We named him after you."

I laugh. I do not think I have ever been so proud as I have ever been. This was a wonderful new chapter of life for me.