“The petition to legally change your name is granted,” the judge said, signing a document with a flourish. “From this day forward, you are legally recognized as Sarah Anne Thornton.”
I walked out of the courthouse and felt the sun on my face. It felt different. It felt like it was actually shining on me, not on the shadow I’d been pretending to be.
We had a party that night. Not a gala with black-tie catering and stiff conversation, but a backyard barbecue with Margaret’s kids and grandkids. There were mismatched chairs, a dog chasing a frisbee, and the smell of charred burgers and summer grass.
My youngest cousin, a five-year-old girl with messy pigtails, handed me a card. It was covered in glitter and lopsided hearts. HAPPY BIRTHDAY SARAH, it read in big, purple letters.
“It’s not my birthday, honey,” I laughed, kneeling down to hug her.
“Mommy said it’s the day you became you,” the girl said solemnly. “So that’s a birthday.”
I looked at Margaret, who was watching me from the porch, a glass of iced tea in her hand. She nodded, a knowing smile on her face.
