My Dear Cassie,

You don't know how I've searched the world over for you, my love. Maury told me about you, and after performing a paternity test on me (and my dog, and my cat, and the lawn guy, and my housekeeper, and my uncle, and basically, whoever he could find who'd open their mouth for a DNA swabbing), it has been determined that your son... is OUR son. And it seems Maury holds the key to this mystery. In his vast DNA bank that he's created since the onset of his infamous paternity shows, Maury found a match, but he won't reveal to me the name and address of our boy. Don't worry, though. I'm blackmailing asking Maury nicely to give up the goods.

That's right, Cassie. I bet you don't remember that night in Roundup, Montana when we, uh, er, <blushes profusely> oh, gosh, how do I put this... consummated our love. And we produced a son -- yes, the son you've been looking for all along.

Well, yeah, I guess you don't remember it, now that I think about it. I happen to remember a certain number of Long Island Iced Teas you were throwing back, as well as about 27 flaming Jello-shots, or something like that. Ahem -- I do not drink, so I would not know about such things. But you sure were flying high without benefit of an airplane that night.

Alas, that did not stop my love for you, dear Cassie. And it apparently didn't stop the production of our son.

Now just why he doesn't want to own up to the two of us being his beautiful parents, I'll never know. But I'll meet you Saturday morning at the iHop downtown so we can prepare to meet our boy... sigh... together. We'll have chocolate-chip pancakes and drink loads of milk and reminisce!