I saw Momma's porch light glowing in the dark as I approached the old homeplace, and apprehension made me weak. My old truck crunched the gravel leading to the house, a sound I'd almost forgotten--a sound that flooded me with memories ... and regret.

I'd stormed out of their lives ten years ago, my pride not letting me contact them once. A bad heart was claiming what was left of my life, and I needed to make amends.

The stack of letters my folks had sent me over the years lay on the seat beside me, most still unopened. The one from six months ago, written in Momma's beautiful handwriting, told me of her and Daddy's own health issues.

I wished I had opened them sooner.

I sat in front of the old farmhouse as strangers emerged, to ask me if I was lost.