A short story that I wrote a while back and just found. I was thinking a lot about how a name ‘validates’ a person’s history by creating a continuous thread throughout their life.

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Julie had meant hair braids and embroidered summer dresses to the nursery school staff, tambourines and perfect pitch to the choir master, homesickness and tears to Brown Owl, a “solid B” to Mrs. O’Kant the mathematics teacher, passion and foresight to York University’s debating society, love and dedication to James, and everything to her son Julian.

Now at age 36, Julie McEscher found herself meaning only ‘child killer’ to most of the country.

She didn’t feel like Julie anymore. Her name had been taken from her and there was no longer a way of quantifying herself or connecting to her past. It seemed unthinkable to even begin defending something without a label, so she kicked the stool away from under her feet and hung there until one was no longer needed.