“Thank you, Lydia,” I said.

“Go take care of your son,” she said.

I took Harrison’s hand and we walked down the gravel path to the Bangor courthouse.

The building was old brick, with tall white columns.

We walked inside, the air smelling of old paper and wood polish.

A clerk led us into a small courtroom.

The judge, a kind-looking woman with gray hair, smiled down at Harrison.

“We are here today for a name change petition,” the judge said.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said.

“You wish to change Harrison Blackwood to Harrison Carter?”

“I do,” I said.

The judge looked at the documents on her desk.

“Mr. Blackwood has signed his consent,” she noted.

“Yes,” I said.

The judge picked up her pen.

She signed the bottom of the decree with a quick, decisive stroke.

“Granted,” she said, looking up at us. “Harrison Carter. It’s a strong name.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.

I picked Harrison up in my arms.

“We’re Carters now, sweetie,” I whispered in his ear.

He giggled and reached for my nose.

We walked out of the courthouse into the bright Maine sunshine.