John. That’s what I was supposed to be called. My mom loved the name. It had been her father’s, John “Jack” Rossiter. She looked forward to calling me Jack, and I don’t think my father had much say in the matter. Then, when she was packing a bag to go to the hospital to have me, my sister, Mary Lou, started to cry and carry on. The only thing that placated her was the promise she could name me. She knew I was supposed to be John. But instead, she suddenly conferred the name Edward on me, after her favorite uncle, and, well, a promise is a promise, so I was Edward. John became my confirmation name. By then it was too late to call me Jack.
John, Jack, Edward.…
