“Will they be able to claim any connection to my success later?” I asked.

“No,” the clerk said.

“This document cuts them off completely from your future.”

She folded the document exactly in half and slid it under the glass.

I reached out and took the fresh birth certificate with the name Hannah Morgan.

I traced the raised black lettering with my thumb, feeling the sharp edges of my new legal identity.

Rachel wrapped her arm tightly around my shoulders as we walked down the courthouse steps into the bright spring morning.

Fifteen years later, I sat on my narrow bunk at the military academy and pressed a heavy, polished brass uniform button into that same thumb.