When I let it slip to people that I sometimes regret taking my husband’s last name after we were married, a panicked look crosses their face. They’re expecting, I can only guess, a diatribe about a good-for-nothing bum of a husband. I’ll give you the good news now. We’re 12 years in and going strong.
My sister practically clutched her heart when I first told her. “But what about the children?” she demanded. I shook my head, completely speechless. Now, I have an answer: What’s going to happen to our — at this stage — hypothetical children if I don’t change my name? They’ll survive.