My name is Sara McNamara and several of my closest friends have pointed out the hypocrisy of my name.
“Sara,” they tell me. “You have stolen someone’s ‘h’ from their name.”

“My name never had an ‘h’,” I tell them. This is after we’ve gone to a movie, and now we are walking through the parking lot. It is night time. Street lamps shine down mistily on our confrontation.

“Well then, ” one of my friend says, “How do you explain this?” She shows me what appears to be my birth certificate. But it can’t be. The birth year is off by ten years and the names listed for my parents are not my parents.

“That isn’t me,” my voice rings through the parking lot.

My friends wonder now, as they pass the birth certificate among themselves, that, if this isn’t me on paper, then who am I, really?

I have no idea who I am. Except maybe, that my name does not have an ‘h’ in it.

Or maybe they should find a more accurate birth certificate.