When I was a little girl, I'd hear my father say we should immigrate to Israel. My mother, however, was afraid of the changes — leaving relatives, learning a new language — so we never left. My father passed away at 54, never stepping onto Israeli soil.

My father's dream was fulfilled when my brother moved to Israel. As for me, I married and settled into life here in California and dreams of children. But they didn't come, and we were told we could never have children of our own.

We turned to adoption, and a few days after our fifth anniversary, we brought our 5-day-old son home. Life for us was wonderful; we were a family at last.

In 1974, we traveled to Israel to visit my brother; our son was 20 months old. We made plans to go "up to Jerusalem" for the day and wrote out our notes to place in the Wall. I decided to simply say, "Thank you, God, for my son and husband."

A week later, I found myself not feeling well and very tired, so my brother took me to see a doctor. The symptoms I was having led the doctor to give me a few tests, and the next day I found out I was pregnant.

My first thought was of my father: "Daddy, we came to Israel, and God thanked us."