I hear the sound of shuffling steps coming across the floor inside. Then the door swings open and a man is standing there before me. And though it is long years since I have seen him, I know him for my father.

He is smaller than I had expected. His face is older, too. Though his eyes, which sparkle as if lit from within by sunlight, are youthful. He is not clothed like a white man—as so many of our people now dress. His garments connect him back to the older ways of our people.

His head is wrapped in a red-and-white cloth. Another cloth is knotted around his neck and tucked into a white calico tunic. Over it all is a knee-length blue robe. There’s a beaded belt around his waist. Instead of buttoned-up pants, like those I have on, he’s wearing buckskin leggings. Soft deerskin moccasins, not stiff shoes, are on his feet. A long-stemmed pipe is in his left hand.

In a single glance I take all this in—as well as the look on his face. It’s warm and welcoming. Has he recognized me as his son?

“Osiyo,” he says in that musical voice. “I greet you, young man.”

“Osiyo,” I say. Then my voice sticks in my throat and I cannot say anything more. I’ve realized from his greeting that he has no idea who I am. His kind smile is simply the face that I have heard he shows to everyone, even those who speak badly of him.

“Who is it?” calls a woman’s voice from farther back in the cabin. It has to be the voice of my stepmother, Sally Guess.

The sound of more feet crossing the cabin floor. Feet moving with quick certainty. Then a woman appears, pushing my father aside. She does not do so roughly. She is merely taking his place because it is her right. It is proper for a Tsalagi woman to stand in the doorway before her husband, to be the first to welcome a stranger. A gray cat comes pattering out to meow and rub itself around her legs and then mine as we stand there.

I look at her. I’ve seen her before, but always from a distance. Taller than my father she’s a good-looking woman. In fact, to my surprise, I can see that she bears some resemblance to my mother. She’s much younger, though her hair is already streaked with gray. (Does every woman who marries my father, I wonder, get gray hair early?)

Sally Guess looks straight up into my eyes. Her nose is a bit sharper than my mother’s. The look on her face is not hostile, but it is much less patient than his welcoming smile.

Who is this? What does he want?

“Osiyo,” I say. “It’s me.” This is all I can get out.