Reflection is good for both the soul and the mind… or so they claim. Its virtues have been drummed into my head for almost as long as I can remember, most often in ways not nearly so eloquent as the words of Confucius that have been seared into my brain. By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third, by experience, which is the bitterest.

Right now I'm not sure reflection is any less bitter than experience. Hell, I'm pretty damn certain it may be the cruelest of all ways to gain the wisdom I need to deal with this situation.

Reflection is something positive, I remind myself again as I sift through the questions barraging me. Yeah, right. Maybe that's the case if contemplation is a vital part of your everyday life, if you're a Trappist monk or a cloistered nun… or a Shaolin priest.

A Shaolin priest. The words echo in my mind as soon as I think them. There's a fitting irony in the reality that a Shaolin priest is the reason I'm seeking wisdom right now, wisdom I'm beginning to think will forever be beyond my grasp.

Not too long ago, I was sure I was prepared for every eventuality. I should have known better. The minute you're arrogant enough to think you know all the answers about anything, life throws you a curve – just to make sure you know you're not the one in control.

Kwai Chang Caine is alive. I test the words silently, getting used to voicing the fact that a man who died fifteen years ago has… well, returned to life isn't exactly an accurate description, but it's the phrase that automatically comes to mind. Soon enough, I'll have to say those words again and again. Soon enough, I'll have to be ready with the explanations everyone else will demand.

How can I explain anything to other people when I can't get past my own questions?

He's alive. Once the shock's worn off, his presence should be simple to grasp, easy to accept. Shouldn't it? Or will the questions persist, niggling at my mind as they've been doing since I found out he was alive?

Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for what's occurred. Miracles do happen in this world, and a father coming back from the dead, so to speak, is proof of that. But no matter how hard I try, I can't limit myself to feeling only joy and gratitude that he's not just alive, but here. Too much has been left unanswered.

Guilt tugs at me for wanting all the answers now, for not having enough patience to wait for the enigma to unravel in its own time… and for fearing that elation at his return may soon be joined by more pain. I need to understand what's going on, but the longer I reflect, the less certain I become that I ever will.

How does a father not know that his child isn't dead – for fifteen years, no less? That's the first question I had, and it's the big one. I mean, if it were me, I'd know. I'm sure I'd know. Wouldn't I? Wouldn't I be able to sense the lie I'd been told? Or do I just want to believe I would, to believe that no separation this cruel can ever happen again as long as I have a say in the matter?

Hell, beyond the father-son bond, he was supposed to have some sort of Shaolin sense that inextricably tied his son's aura to his awareness – at least that was the way I understood it. A man like that should damn well know his son's alive! Examining my conscience, I realize my expectations are unrealistic. I shouldn't expect him to be less human than the rest of us, less gullible than the rest of us, merely because he carries the brands of a Shaolin priest. I shouldn't demand it just because I want to believe I wouldn't make the same mistake.

But what about his expectations? Fifteen years is a long time. In some ways it's a lifetime. He remembers a boy who was being raised to follow in his footsteps. Will he like the man that boy has become? Will he be able to accept the choices that man has made and how they've altered the path once set out for him? Or will he resent the stranger who's replaced the boy he once knew?

Unable to sit or stand still, I retrace my own steps aimlessly, no longer aware of how long I've been pacing. The more I try to make sense of the changes brought about by his return, the more I wonder about. Maybe my first question wasn't really the big one, I reflect. Shit, how can a query about what happened fifteen years ago be more important than one about what's happening now? 

I take a deep breath, knowing I've been trying to avoid thinking about this, unconsciously hoping the question will go away. It hasn't. It's just… somehow… built in importance.

What the hell kind of father leaves his injured son – his son who's just been shot – in the hands of others, sticks around only briefly, and then fades into the woodwork without even leaving a forwarding address? Oh, he explained his actions by saying that there would be time later for the reunion, that his son needed his other family, his other father, now – but I have a hard time swallowing it. Why couldn't both families be here? Damn it, if it was me, I couldn't bring myself to leave my son – or my father, for that matter – again for even a few minutes so soon after learning he was alive. I suppose some people need solitude to come to terms even with miraculous surprises. I should try to understand his side of this, but right now all I can see is that he's compounded the pain of a gunshot wound… because he's gone again.

Barely audible, a sound penetrates my thoughts. It brings matters into some sort of perspective. Reflection didn't bring me the answers to my questions. And God knows I don't feel any wiser than when I began trying to puzzle things out.

The hell with it. Reflection may be the noblest path to wisdom, but I sure as hell don't feel very noble or very wise right now. If I were a noble man, I'm sure I could devote part of my mind to thinking about how to make this reunion easier. But I really don't care about that… not yet. Not when my son's waking up after surgery, to find his father gone again, if only temporarily. All I care about is my son.

Peter needs his father… and, one last time, that role is mine and mine alone to fill. I take a few steps, stand beside my son's bed, and watch him stir, hazel eyes slowly opening. He's too groggy to remember everything yet. I'm sure of that as I watch him focus his vision on my face and hear him call me what he rarely does, for what I fear may be the last time: "Dad".

Tomorrow I can reflect on how Kwai Chang Caine's return affects my family's life and how I'll prevent my son's getting caught in the middle of his two families. Today I know only that Peter needs his dad… and that, no matter what happens with his natural father, nothing will ever make me view him as anything other than my son.