My father texted me, ‘To us, you’re already dead,’ and I only replied,

date of birth. A hospital in New York. Arthur Bennett. Caroline Bennett. Nothing strange. Nothing missing.

But then I looked at the bottom corner.

A delayed registration stamp.

I had seen it before and never questioned it. My mother once told me the hospital had made an administrative mistake after my birth. She said it with that annoyed little wave of continue reading …