Carolyn's wedding day. Today is my daughter's wedding day, and I'm standing alone in the middle of the hotel ballroom, nervous as hell.

As I wait for Paul, soft piano music and the buzz of a multitude of conversations engulf me, only to be drowned out by the thunder of my own heartbeat. I pray its volume is so incredibly, appallingly loud only to me, that it betrays my disquiet to no one. This wedding may have happened more quickly than anyone would have guessed, but the speed with which it's occurred isn't the reason for my unease. And I don't want anything, especially my nerves, to take the spotlight away from Carolyn today.

It's Carolyn's day, one of the most important she'll ever experience, but I suspect it will prove to be one of the most momentous days in my life as well. God help me, I'm about to meet Peter's father for the first time.

Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I hold back the laugh that threatens to escape as I consider the irony that my daughter's wedding day is the same day I'll meet my son's father. I remember being this nervous only once before, the day a lifetime ago when I first met Paul's daughter.

I was terrified then, convinced my own future hung in the balance, conditioned on whether Carolyn would accept this stranger who wanted to take her mother's place. Still… that day was easy, compared to what lies ahead of me now.

After all, it was only myself on the line then. If this goes badly… I shake my head slightly, trying to convince myself a meeting certain to define itself as beyond awkward will go smoothly. It must, no matter what.

My son's heart is on the line.

If the worst had happened then, if Carolyn had rejected me, I'd merely have become the proverbial much hated stepmother. The pain of being seen that way would have been easy to endure compared to the prospect of Peter being… Being what? Two ways to conclude that thought leap to mind; I examine both, unable to stand the notion of either coming to pass.

Since the day I learned, in one fateful phone call from my husband, that our son's father was alive, I've worried that Peter will feel forever torn between his two families. Worried that he'll think he has to choose between us. Common sense should tell him that's not the case. He should know that Kwai Chang Caine's reappearance in his life doesn't alter the fact Paul and I consider him our son and that we share his joy his father is alive. But logic has never been Peter's strong suit.

Why should I expect him to handle this logically when Paul and I can't entirely manage to do it? How many times in the last few weeks have Paul and I listened as Peter excitedly rambled on about his father? How often have I waited until we were alone, then probed Paul's doubts – not his concerns about a man I still haven't met, but his fear that he no longer has the right to play a father's role in his son's life? I haven't yet been able to get him to fully acknowledge the paradox between that fear he's no longer Peter's father and the constancy with which he views Peter as our son.

One day soon, Paul, I swear to God I'm going to run out of patience with this new insecurity of yours. We had enough trouble ridding Peter of the notion that he was some kind of second choice for us because he wasn't ours by blood, that he wasn't worthy of our love. I don't need you suddenly doubting that he loves you as a father. No, I realize I'm not being fair to Paul by indulging in this line of reasoning. Nor is my frustration over his fears entirely rational. Questioning his continued place as Peter's father instead of taking it for granted is all too human a reaction to Caine's being alive. I can't fault him for it.

I'm the lucky one in this triangle of parents Peter suddenly has. The only one who doesn't have to contend with the natural dread of losing status as a parent because there's suddenly someone else around with just as much right to the role. Laura Caine died so long ago that I'm the only mother Peter has ever really known, the only one he remembers. His loyalties aren't divided when he thinks of me as his mother in the same way they are when he thinks of Paul as his father – especially now that he knows his natural father is still alive. No, to Peter both his fathers feel equally real, while Laura's a dim and much loved memory… leaving him free to accept my being his mother without reservation, without worrying that his loving me as such would be some sort of betrayal to his other mother.

If I'm perfectly honest, I have to admit that my own handle on the situation is as tenuous and illogical as my husband's and my son's… and, I suspect, as Kwai Chang Caine's. I should be focusing my efforts on bringing this oddly constituted family of Peter's together, on bridging the gaps between Peter and each of his fathers and those between the fathers themselves. Instead… instead, I've waited until Paul or Peter was ready to introduce me to Caine rather than seek out the man myself. Instead, I've let other people call the shots when Paul and I should both actively be getting acquainted with our fellow parent… as Peter is getting reacquainted with the father he thought dead. Instead, I've been selfish enough to feel, in some small measure, grateful that my own position in my son's life hasn't been and won't be challenged in anyone's mind or heart.

Damn, Annie, you're as screwed up as the men in your family, I scold myself. You start out worrying about the two worst aspects of the impact Caine's return could have on your son and you end up thinking about how lucky you are that your own place in Peter's life is secure no matter how torn he is between his two families.

Peter's guilt over loving all his parents isn't all that's difficult for me to endure witnessing. There's a second fear I harbor, one that's caused more sleepless nights since the day Peter was shot – and I learned Kwai Chang Caine was alive – than my son's attacks of unearned guilt ever have.

The prospect of Peter being hurt by his father terrifies me.

As ugly as such a thought is, it's easier to admit to that fear by putting it into words than I ever thought it would be. Paul's accused me on more than one occasion of harboring the instincts of a lioness fighting for her cubs whenever our children are threatened in any way… emotionally or physically. Maybe he's right. I haven't even met Kwai Chang Caine and I'm as prepared to serve him notice as I am to bond with him.

Peter's memories from childhood are the only way I really have to appraise the man, other than the blessing I just heard him offer at my daughter's wedding. Peter's memories and these brief weeks of contact both Paul and Peter have had with him. So far, I'm not overly impressed by his actions. I'm certainly not inclined to think of him in the glowing terms Peter always used to describe him.

Jealousy isn't what's driving me. If I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Peter's joy that Caine was alive wouldn't be inextricably intertwined with pain, even Paul's insecurities wouldn't be enough to make me feel the least bit awkward about Peter thinking his father hung the moon. Intellectually, I know this reunion is as difficult for Caine as it is for Peter, as difficult for Caine as for Paul and me. Intellectually, I know he deserves the benefit of the doubt. But emotionally… emotionally, I'm a mother, first and foremost.

He's already, in the brief time since their reunion, hurt our son. Maybe it wasn't his intention. Maybe he didn't realize he'd done it. I don't give a damn. He'll answer to me for it. Actually, I'm arrogant enough to believe that Laura would approve of my determination to make her husband answer for his actions, that she would fight even the man she loved with equal ferocity when it's her son's heart that's at stake.

I don't have insight into what Caine was thinking the day Paul and I learned he was alive, and perhaps I should have made an effort to discover his motivation for leaving the hospital so soon after our son was shot. I can't help but feel that there must have been more to it than the explanation he gave Paul about Peter needing his other family right then. If there wasn't, how in the world could he leave Peter again so soon? I suppose it's possible that he could have been frightened of no longer fitting in to his son's life, as afraid of rejection as I know Peter was. But I don't know that's the case, nor do I actually know that there's a reason for his actions that could satisfy me.

All I know is that, in the brief interim between Paul's phone call to tell me Peter had been shot and the time Kelly and I arrived at the hospital, Caine disappeared. I allow my memory to drift back, remembering what felt like endless hours listening to my husband pace our son's hospital room before Peter came to after surgery… and the pain Peter tried so unsuccessfully to hide when he realized his father was gone.

Impatient that it's taking Paul so long to locate Caine so he can officially introduce us, I try to prepare myself for the meeting ahead. Unfortunately, now that I've started remembering the events of that fateful day, I can't seem to detach my mind from reliving it. All I can hear is the echo of Peter's disconsolate voice, still slightly slurred from the anesthesia, wondering if Caine's absence meant he'd somehow failed to measure up. All I can hear are my own answering words of reassurance, carefully crafted to let Peter know how much he is loved without offering either criticism or approbation of his father's decision. All I can remember is my temper flaring as I heard… I can't even remember now exactly what Paul said to reassure Peter that we were there, only that the way he said it made me want to accuse him of making excuses for Caine – and that, somehow, it sounded as though Paul was distancing himself to make the reunion easier for Caine.

"It meant a great deal to Peter to have you there." Paul's voice, emanating from a distance, cuts through my thoughts. "He's gotten very close to my family in the past few years."

"My family." Paul's being overly gracious, distancing himself again to make this easier for Caine… and, I realize, for Peter. I don't know exactly where Peter is, but I do know that if he hears either Paul or me fail to include him as part of our family, he'll feel as though he's been disowned.

Oh, hell. I'd better interrupt this conversation before Peter hears something he takes the wrong way. Why couldn't Paul introduce me to Caine first, as we'd planned? Why do the men always have to have their private chats first?

I've already taken my first step in my husband's direction when I hear "It is he who is fortunate." The cadence of the words, more than the timbre of the voice itself, identifies the speaker as Kwai Chang Caine. With a start, I recognize that I already can place his voice, although the blessing he delivered at the wedding has provided my only opportunity to listen to him without other voices and sounds distracting me.

"I want you to know that there is no one in this room who is happier than I am that Peter has found his real father." With difficulty, I manage to hold back a wince at Paul's words, but only because I'm uncertain if my face lies within Caine's line of vision. As much as Paul and I share our son's joy that his father is alive, it hurts to hear my husband use the phrase "real father"; he may not be Peter's father by blood, but he is every inch as much Peter's "real" father as is Caine.

"The generosity of your spirit does you honor." Though Caine's words are a bit more formal than I'd expect a parent to use in such circumstances, I decide I'll give him more of the benefit of the doubt than I was prepared to a few minutes ago. After all, he's just expressed implicit recognition of the truth that Paul and I are Peter's parents too.

I begin to feel more confident that this first meeting will go smoothly, assured enough that I can almost ignore the lame joke Paul offers in response to Caine's words and the fact that they're both uncomfortable enough to laugh somewhat heartily at it. Once the laughter ends, however, I find myself halting midstride, stopped in my tracks by the question delivered in my husband's next breath: "How's he handling the reunion?"

Maybe Paul's not bending over backwards to make Caine comfortable quite as much as I thought he was when I first heard them talking, I muse. Maybe he's testing the waters just as I intend to do, trying to pierce the elusive nature of a man even Peter has termed an enigma. Why else would he ask Caine a question to which he and I already know the answer?

I'm not certain I like the sigh with which Caine prefaces his answer. I am certain the response itself makes me feel more secure about his re-entry into our son's life. Caine mentions that Peter "has much anger, doubt, fears." If he knows this, he's far more perceptive than I've been giving him credit for being. I know how desperately Peter has fought to prevent exhibiting any emotion connected to this reunion other than joy and anticipation – to Caine and to us. Yes, he's slipped at times, but Paul and I can read him like a book. Until now, I didn't dare hope that a father who last saw him when he was twelve would be equally aware of the emotions of the man that boy had become.

Doubts about Caine still persist, though, as much as I wish they didn't. Evidently, his answer hasn't allayed enough of Paul's concerns, either, for I hear him continue testing the waters by asking, "How are you handling it?"

I remain still, curious as to how he'll answer the question. From all Peter's told us – and what little I've gleaned from Paul's and Peter's accounts of their time with him since he's been in town – Caine strikes me as a very private man. I wonder whether his desire to keep his emotions private will outweigh his inclination to be as honest with Peter's other father as Paul has tried to be with him. "Rage, pleasure, hope – all sounds from the same flute." As the words penetrate, I let out the breath I wasn't aware I was holding. He's trying to meet us halfway, I figure, if he's willing to admit to such a mixture of emotions. Moreover, I know the words are the truth – because they so aptly describe the wringer Paul and I have been through over the past several weeks as well.

Paul's response tells me he's been thrown by the parallel Caine's just acknowledged between his emotions and our own. There's no other reason he would ask what Caine meant; if I grasped the phrase "sounds from the same flute", so did he.

Taking my husband's discomfiture as my cue, I cover the remaining ground between myself and the two men as I hear Caine reply, "As best I can." As I do, I muse that this statement is breathtaking in its simplicity; all any of us affected by this reunion can do to handle its aftershocks is the best we can.

I slip my hand through Paul's left elbow as I stop at his side, nudging him a bit to the right so I can be confident I'm facing Caine head on. Letting go of Paul's arm, I reach for Caine's hand and, finding it easily, grasp it in my own. Only brief seconds have passed, but I already know that Paul's either too off-balance from his own conversation with Caine or too amused at the semi-grand entrance I've just made to do the honors of introducing us officially – and I know which I suspect is the case. So I plunge right in, ignoring that tiny bit of protocol myself. After all, we each know who the other is.

"Your benediction was beautiful," I tell Caine, my tone perhaps a little too bright. I'm not sure whether that's the result of my nerves or a natural byproduct of the smile into which my mouth has stretched since the reception began, a smile so broad it almost feels pasted on. I am sure that turning down the candlepower of this smile isn't an option, if I want to continue to look happy throughout the entire afternoon.

"A simple prayer." Shrugging off a compliment, so to speak. In that moment, I hear Peter in his father. Peter's never been very good at accepting praise as his due.

Shaken a bit by that revelation, I subtly correct the statement I heard Paul make earlier. "Oh, we're so happy you're with our family today." Our family, Caine, a family that includes Peter. I add the thought silently, restraining myself from saying it aloud. Scant seconds later, I surprise even myself by blurting out, "Stepmothers and lost fathers have to stick together." A few inches away, I can feel the waves of confusion and shock emanating from my husband. I take a certain perverse pleasure in the fact that Caine seems equally unnerved; although I can't see him, I can sense much the same stunned bewilderment coming from him as from Paul.

Naturally, they don't share the same reason for their similar reactions. I know Paul well enough to know he'll understand what I'm doing, to know his astonishment is rooted solely in my usage of the word "stepmothers". Technically, I may be Carolyn's stepmother, but neither of us has made that distinction about my motherly status since the day Paul and I married twenty-two years ago. Caine, on the other hand… Caine probably doesn't have the slightest clue what to make of this strange statement. But I've been told that a Shaolin priest is trained to have certain powers of insight.

Caine damn well better grasp my meaning.

Much as I didn't realize I was about to say the words until they left my mouth, I know exactly why I've said them. I just took the gloves off, stripped away the veneer of courtesy that's graced every interaction my family's had with Caine so far. I just told him that we have equal status when it comes to our son.

Oh, I may not have planned to say it now, but I did select my words carefully. "Lost fathers" was an all too thinly veiled shot at Caine, one that I acknowledge wasn't entirely fair. I may be livid at him for his vanishing act after Peter was shot, but it was the combination of Tan's destruction of the temple and an old man's lies that kept father and son apart – and believing each other dead – for fifteen years. If he walked away now, it would be his choice, one I'd gladly condemn. But his absence for all those years wasn't his fault.

"Stepmothers", on the other hand, was a wholly conscious word choice, and I hope Caine grasps the import of my decision to describe myself that way. It was a deliberate effort to drive home to him that I am every bit as much Peter's mother as he is his father. So what if it's not exactly accurate? It's not as if I'm lying. Well, not really.

I am a stepmother, I'm just not Peter's stepmother – nor do I define myself as one in relation to my children. Kelly is my daughter by blood, Peter and Carolyn my son and daughter by choice, and I love them all equally. What's in my heart – and theirs – makes me their mother, plain and simple. To me, that's all that matters. To the courts, Kelly is my daughter because my name's on her birth certificate and Carolyn is my daughter because I went through adoption proceedings… but Peter isn't my son because he aged out of the foster care system the day he turned eighteen.

The courts are wrong.

That's why I chose to call myself Peter's stepmother just now. I wanted there to be no room for doubt in Caine's mind that Paul and I are Peter's parents too. Right now, that's all that matters. Right now, he doesn't need to know the truth behind why we never adopted Peter.

If Caine asks, I'll tell him the truth. I'll tell him that we never even broached the subject with Peter, that we didn't need a set of papers to tell us we were a family. I'll tell him the harsh truth that Peter was considered a troubled teenager, hard to place, and Social Services seemed grateful we were willing to take him off their hands after they'd given up on a successful foster placement. And then I'll explain the microscopic intensity of the scrutiny under which prospective adoptive families are placed.

Bringing Peter into our family was easy. If we'd filed for adoption, we might well have fallen short of the mark – at least in the court's eyes. A husband with a dangerous job and a past cloaked in mystery and a blind wife? Adoptions have been denied for less. Custody's been taken away for less. Peter needed stability. He needed to know that his new family wouldn't be swept away from him too. Filing for adoption would have meant risking his being taken away from us. So Paul and I decided not to take that legal step. And we were the ones it cost, not Peter. The day he turned eighteen didn't change what we felt or what we would do for our son any more than Carolyn's or Kelly's turning eighteen altered our relationship with them. The day he turned eighteen robbed us of whatever legal rights we had as his parents. As long as our son was safe and loved, it was worth it.

That's the hell of it, the cruel and bitter irony. To do what was best for our son, we had to give up the chance that he could legally become our son. No one has the right to deny Paul and me equal status as Peter's parents after that. Not even Kwai Chang Caine.

The myriad of thoughts sparked by my use of the phrase "stepmothers and lost fathers" has tumbled through my mind in the space of only a few seconds, I realize as Caine's voice startles me. He sounds less comfortable than before, as though he's seeking to change the subject in order to avoid dealing with an unpleasant truth. That kind of distraction is Peter's specialty. Knowing that doesn't make it any easier to hear the wholly unexpected query. "You have not always been blind?"

Slightly taken aback, I let out a nervous laugh. I wonder for a moment how he knows, before my mind kicks into gear and I realize Peter must have mentioned it. Comforted by the sudden presence of Paul's hand on my shoulder, I reply, "That's right. A nurse turned up the oxygen just a tad too high when I was three months old and in the hospital with whooping cough." As I speak, my voice painfully brittle to my own ears, I automatically demonstrate the phrase "a tad too high" with a gesture of my hand. I continue, "But I'm disappointed. Most people, when they first meet me, don't know that I'm blind at all." I'm telling the truth, on both scores. Even Paul was fooled when we first met, despite being a trained observer. And I pride myself in the seamless nature of the vast majority of my activities in a world designed for the sighted. Whatever limits my lack of vision entails are rarely at the forefront of what the world sees of Annie Blaisdell. Paul can tell how uneasy I am; I know because I feel the hand on my shoulder briefly edge up under my hair to massage the tension assailing my neck muscles.

My discomfort ratchets up another notch as Caine responds to the unspoken challenge I've just issued by saying, "I can see beyond the eyes. A… sometimes unfortunate gift." I know I'm projecting because this whole line of conversation bothers me so much, but I find these words a bit… smug, although reason tells me they're not meant to be anything but truthful. Christ, Caine's probably just as ill at ease as I am right now, for he next asks a non sequitur of a question. "You do not use a cane?"

Relief floods me. This question, asked with a note of genuine curiosity, is one I'm prepared to answer. One I was born prepared to answer, I think giddily, as though I weren't still stone cold sober. Leaning in to Paul, I allow my right arm to travel to his waist and rest there. "Well, he's my cane," I explain. To Paul's credit, the chuckle I know is right beneath the surface doesn't escape. "And you know what they say about the other senses intensifying. Well, I can hear soda being splashed into a highball glass from fifty yards." God, I'm going to need a drink by the time this day is over. One far stronger than champagne. This time Paul fails to hold back his laughter; I join him as I realize how utterly idiotic it was to make a wisecrack about drinking to a Shaolin priest.

Luck is with me, for the first time since I entered this awkward conversation. Before Caine has a chance to think too much about his son's mother's flighty and sarcastic behavior, another voice interrupts us. Flustered and officious at the same time, the quick British words are those of the hotel manager, a Mr. Carstairs. He ignores both me and Caine; perhaps that wouldn't be evident to someone watching him talk, but it's painfully obvious to me that he's addressing Paul and Paul alone. I make a mental note not to do business with this hotel again, at least not if it entails dealing with this man. "Everything all right?" Carstairs asks. Without taking a breath, he rushes on, "Anything you want, just let me know. Double duty today. The catering manager's off sick. Touch of food poisoning."

That does it. This entire day is simply too surreal for words. I'm standing in the middle of my daughter's wedding reception, celebrating a wedding so hastily put together that we ended up using official police transportation between the ceremony and the reception because we couldn't arrange on such short notice for the limousines that would be needed. I'm talking to my son's father, a man I didn't even know was alive until a few weeks ago, for the first time. I've probably managed to put my worst foot forward, both with this enigmatic man with whom Paul and I share a son and with Carolyn's new in-laws. And now a member of the hotel staff is letting us in on the secret that the catering manager is down with food poisoning. This is all too bizarre. It's not funny, but I can't help laughing. This comedy of errors could only happen at the wedding of one of my children, but somehow I always thought Peter's would be the wedding in question.

If I hadn't already given in, I would have started laughing at Carstairs' earnest advice to "steer clear of the flaming rum trifle." It's a piece of advice that strikes me funny for several reasons, not least of which is the fact that not once in the planning stages of this reception did the words "flaming rum trifle" appear on any of the menus presented to us. And I'd know if they had; Carolyn read the menu choices aloud so often that we all thought we'd go mad by the time she decided.

"I'll remember that." Carstairs likely thinks Paul's taking him seriously, but I know my husband well enough to know he's actually trying to figure out why he's suddenly paying for food items Carolyn didn't order.

Music swells, as the soft notes of a tinkling piano cease and the wedding march is struck up. I listen to both Carstairs' footsteps and my husband's fade, the two men walking in opposite directions, as Frank Strenlich begins his duties as master of ceremonies. The microphone gives off a little feedback, so slight most people wouldn't even notice it. But my ears are more sensitive than most people's and I'm attentive to the tiniest change in the quality of any sound. Idly, I wonder at the incongruity of Frank using a microphone; few of those who know him would guess he'd ever need one to make his voice heard. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce the bride and groom, Mr. and Mrs. Todd and Carolyn McCall."

Carolyn McCall. My daughter's new name sounds stranger than I anticipated it would, and it momentarily takes my breath away.

"The father of the bride and the mother of the groom, please step forward." As I hear Frank's words, I feel the same bittersweet pride with which I know Paul will soon draw Carolyn onto the dance floor for the bride's dance with her father. "And the mother of the bride and the father of the groom." I walk in the direction of Frank's voice, dreading the spotlight. This was Carolyn's idea, her way to ensure the Blaisdells and McCalls became one big, happy family. Instead of having all eyes focused on her and Todd alone on the dance floor for their first dance as a married couple, she wants the three pairs Frank's just called forward to share the first dance.

Reaching the dance floor, I feel Paul's arm settle at my waist for a second before guiding me toward Hamilton McCall – a man who's already let me know he thinks that being blind is the equivalent of being stupid. My dismay at the prospect of dancing with Hamilton is only marginally eased by the knowledge that Paul will be equally uncomfortable contending with Josephine's frostiness. Uneasily, I take Hamilton's hand as the music changes. All in all, as much as it stuns me to realize it, I'm starting to miss the less awkward experience of talking with Caine.

Three and a half minutes. That's how long the first dance lasts. That's how long I grit my teeth in an artificial smile, pray Carolyn won't notice anything's wrong, and endure her new father-in-law's condescending remarks. The moment the music stops, I excuse myself and head away from the dance floor. Caine's presence and the need to be a gracious host to my son's father give me the perfect reason to offer Hamilton for my slipping away as our respective spouses dance with the bride and groom. While I'd rather just find Kelly or Peter, I do seek Caine out again. In truth, I relish the knowledge that this entire situation with Peter's father coming back from the dead, so to speak, is making Hamilton and Josephine McCall squirm. I've long had the habit of conducting myself so that my actions make self-important people as uncomfortable as possible, and I have no intention of passing up the opportunity to do so now. Carolyn would applaud my decision.

It doesn't take me long to find Caine, and my first order of business is to start discussing our son. I ask where Peter is, to make sure nothing that can be misinterpreted is said in his earshot. Caine informs me that he's talking with friends; I suspect it's actually one friend, in the form of an ex-fiancée. Satisfied that Peter's occupied, I begin to probe the past more deeply. "He told me he never knew his mother."

"No." The pain underlining that one word is enough to motivate me to link my arm through Caine's, in hopes of lending some emotional support. He's silent for a few moments, and we begin to walk together as that charged silence lengthens. Finally, he continues, "He always carried her picture with him."

"Still does," I confirm. "In his wallet."

"Yes. But now it is your image he carries in his heart."

I'm stunned. Caine's just said exactly what I was trying to tell him earlier… that I'm Peter's mother, plain and simple. I want to offer some scintillating response. Instead, I can muster only "Oh, I think I'm gonna like you a lot." And if insights like that one continue to be the order of the day, I imagine I will.

A weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I've survived my daughter's wedding ceremony and my first encounter with my son's father. All I have to do now is get through the reception and whatever snags we'll hit.

This day is going to go down as one for the books.