The week went by faster than father or daughter had wished. They began the week carefully, each taking great pains to avoid stirring up past memories and hostilities. They walked a narrow line of tolerance and insight, each doing their best to mend the torn fences of battles long past. For both it had been a difficult journey of exploration, understanding and silent forgiveness. With each passing day, as they became more comfortable with one another, they broached the touchy subjects that had held them apart, treading into a minefield of aggrieved feelings, misunderstandings, and selfish motives.

"I realize that words like, 'I'm sorry,' will never be enough to erase the harm that I inflicted on you. The war damaged so many young men and so many families on many levels; husbands hurt wives, fathers hurt daughters. Even the world of politics was torn apart—not amended to this day."

Dana watched the sad facial expressions of her father as his disjointed explanation of how a war, lost a generation ago, had exacted such a terrible toll on his psyche and her family.

Harsh judgments by each had slowly yielded to compassion and mutual respect. The war, the drugs, the promiscuity and the feelings of abandonment that reigned throughout the lost years played a large part in their mutual distrust and animosity. He fought with distinction in a war that she came to scorn. The wall that rose between them would not topple over; it had to be dismantled brick by bloody brick. Difficult issues to face and resolve were taken on in a respectful, tolerant soul-bearing catharsis. It was a good start on a long, arduous, heart-breaking journey of understanding. Because his daughter initiated the reconciliation by coming to him and asking for his help, he knew she had made the new beginning possible. His guilt had made it impossible for him to make the first move. He was able to cross the divide that separated them but only because of the hand she extended. It was not an easy gesture for her, and he knew it.

"We don't need to talk about it anymore, Dad. I'm coming to understand how awful war is and what it can do to a soldier's mind. I don't blame you for anything."

In this new-found harmony Conrad and his daughter walked side by side toward the dented, faded pickup. They smiled over light banter, as she poked fun at the beat-up truck.

"Do you think this old wreck will get you all the way back home in one piece?"

"This old wreck, as you call it, is probably in better shape than I am," he grinned in reply.

A random, jagged hairline crack wound its way diagonally across the windshield and complemented the dents in the fenders. The vehicle displayed as many defects as the face of its owner. Signs of casual misuse and unintentional abuse were present on both the truck and its owner

"That's not saying much. Seriously if you have car trouble on the road, please call. We'll come get you."

"Don't worry about me," he replied. "I'll be all right."

His "road kill" face reflected the many facets of a full, hard life. A history of careless living was etched into every angle and contour of his rugged features. From the Mekong Delta to the smoke-filled barrooms of small Texas towns, from cheap bourbon to the even cheaper women, each chapter of his pilgrimage had gouged deep, jagged furrows of sadness above his eyes, along his brow and deep into his jaw line.

Conrad put his life on the line many times for his country and for his comrades in arms. His selfless acts of bravery were recognized by his men and his country. The ribbons and medals that had once graced his dress uniform now were thoughtlessness discarded in the recesses of some dark bureau drawer. To look at the brass and patriotic colors was like looking into his past, a place he didn't care to revisit. They were testimony to a different time, a different man.

Although life had handed him many disappointments he still maintained an optimistic dream. Standing beside the battered pickup, Conrad reached into his vest pocket and withdrew one of several lottery tickets he always seemed to have on hand.

"Here, honey. Maybe this is the lucky one."

"I don't believe in that kind of luck," she replied.

"I don't either," Conrad agreed, "but it seems I've exhausted the 'hard work' kind of luck or the 'keeping my eye on the ball kind,' a long time ago. Maybe this," he said fingering the ticket, "is the only kind I've got left."

"Pop, you're too young to be giving up on your dreams."

For most of Conrad's life, except for the lost years, he had harbored a dream that vast wealth was somewhere within his grasp. He nearly achieved it once, only to lose it in an economic recession.

"Had I been smart and kept my eyes on what was going on around me, I would have seen it coming. I could have saved myself."

Dana slipped her arm around her father's waist. "Don't give up your dreams Dad. Sometimes they are all that we have left."

Conrad carried a great deal of baggage around with him. Much of it was the bulky, heavy burden of regret. From a very early age he was the tough guy, in the school and on the street. He never let a slight go unanswered. The problem with being the tough guy, he found, was the constant need to prove it. In his ultimate act of toughness, he altered his birth certificate and joined the military. Conrad went to war at seventeen and he regretted that most of all. Terrible maiming and killing occurred on both sides of an issue he didn't understand. The wounds he suffered were not bloody like those sustained by his "brothers in war." Unlike torn muscle and broken bone, his wounds remained unseen and unhealed for years. The hurt he carried was not visible, not easy to diagnose, and not easy to treat.

Conrad's son-in-law, Phil, called his goodbyes from the porch landing. Conrad returned the gesture and barked a good natured command. "You be good to her, Phil. She's carrying my grandson."

Dana let the remark pass without acknowledgement other than a tolerant smile.

Conrad turned to his daughter who had insisted on carrying his black canvas travel bag, in spite of her swollen belly.

"Just throw that up in back, close to the cab. It'll ride all right," he instructed her.

"Jeeze, Pop, why don't you clean the junk out of the back of this truck?" she grinned as she eyed the bed of the pickup with its tangle of tools, cords, nuts, bolts, nails and more.

"What do you mean junk, this is all good stuff." They were the discards of many construction jobs, all too good to be tossed in the trash.

"I will as soon as I can find the time," he continued halfheartedly. They both knew that time wouldn't be soon.

"You'd probably get better gas mileage, if you did."

"And then I wouldn't know where anything was." He gently embraced his daughter and kissed her lightly on the cheek. As he broke away from their hug he lightly patted her expanding midriff and in his husky voice said, "Take good care of yourself, and that grandson of mine."

"It's a boy" he said. A tone of enlightened discernment was evident in his voice, and in the gentle nod of his head. Conrad paused to pull a faded red handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the thick, dry splatter of mud that obscured the logo on his door panel. C. Shore Construction. He grabbed the door handle, and was about to enter the cab when he spotted his son-in-law's figure retreating into the house.

"Take good care of him too; he's a keeper."

Dana disregarded her father's...