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The test itself was rigged.
I wiped my face, opened my laptop, and typed into the search bar, legal name change process state.
The steps were simple. File a petition, pay a fee, show up in court, publish a tiny notice. People did it all the time to match a spouse, or mark a new chapter.
I wanted to do it to bury the version of me who still waited for my parents to show up.
If I was going to kill Carter, I needed a name that meant something.
I pulled an old shoe box from my closet.
Inside were letters from my grandmother, my dad’s mom, Margaret Murphy.
She was the one who came to my school plays when my parents were too busy, who mailed me $5 bills with notes that said, “I’m proud of you. Keep going.”
In one letter, she wrote, “Some families give love like breathing. Others make you earn each breath. Don’t stay where you’re always gasping for air, Maddie.
After she died, no one pushed my parents to do better.
And don’t be dramatic became the family motto whenever I got hurt.
I traced her signature, Margaret Murphy, and said the last name out loud.
Murphy.
It didn’t taste like neglect.
It tasted like the only person who had ever chosen me first.
On the petition form, I typed first name Madison, last name Murphy.
My hands shook for a few lines, then studied.
I wasn’t just leaving them.
I was choosing whose legacy I wanted to carry.
The next morning, I filed the documents at the courthouse.
The clerk stamped them without a second glance.
For her, it was routine.
For me, it was the moment Carter went on life support.
On the way home, I mailed certified letters to my parents.
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