At my mother’s funeral, the priest pulled me aside and said, “Your real name isn’t Brooks,” then pressed a storage key into my hand and told me not to go home, and by the time my stepfather texted Come home. Now., I was already driving toward a storage unit with my Army dress uniform still on and a name in my head that hadn’t belonged to me in thirty years.
The air in that Savannah church was thick as molasses and just as suffocating. My mother’s casket was a few feet away, draped in white roses, and my stepfather, Thomas Brooks, was shaking hands near the altar like he was collecting campaign donations. I was still in my Army dress blues, stiff and starched, counting…
