It wasn’t until she was 12 years old that Cheryl Schwarzkopf really began to hate her name. Actually, by then she was a prolific reader; she used “detest,” “loathe,” and “abhor” instead of just “hate.”

Her first name was bad enough, and she tried to modify it to Sherry, and then Cherry, and even Cherri with a daisy over the “i.” But she didn’t have enough sympathy or friends to make the change. Cheryl she remained.

It was her last name that was the unkindest cut. She preferred her father’s family to the Brents her mother contributed, but Cheryl was stricken early with acne and as soon as her schoolmates discovered what Schwartzkopf meant, they wouldn’t let up.

Some folks say whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but Cheryl Schwartzkopf didn’t name-toughen throughout high school. The teasing diminished but the acne didn’t, and she winced whenever she was called by her last name.

Cheryl tried to heal her skin. She stopped eating chocolate and she eliminated all fried foods from her teenage diet. Her choices became so healthy that she lost the baby fat forever. She tried every topical cream she found.

Nothing worked. The creams dried her facial oils till her nose flaked, but still the pimples came. Even in college, when she had grown as inured to the sound of Schwartzkopf as she ever would, she continued to break out on the face, the shoulders, sometimes even her upper chest.

She was otherwise attractive. Her height was about average and she had a girlish but pleasant figure. Her long brown hair grew thick and glossy, with a natural wave and auburn highlights. Her fingers and toes were graceful, and her nails were large and shapely.

And she’d spent enough time alone, with books, being teased, that she had developed a personality. She spoke with a rich vocabulary and some wit. She had a few odd opinions and could defend them. She was never described as a popular girl, but she had friends and dates. She married younger than many.

It didn’t surprise anyone who knew her when she took her husband’s name. No one expected her to hyphenate – she’d made it clear that she thought that was as affected in an American as spelling center centre or favor with a “u” – and her friends knew her boyfriend would have to have a last name ending in “schitz” or “weiner” to make her keep her own. She married Alec and became Cheryl Smith.

Her acne persisted. There was a little improvement during pregnancy, but she was back to square one after she weaned Liam. Finally she gave herself something her parents never had: a visit to the dermatologist.

Dr. Ringrose examined her eruptions and diagnosed allergy. Unlike her parents, he told her she would not outgrow it; he referred her to a specialist for tests. It seemed beyond ironic to Cheryl when she learned that she was allergic to most of the healthy foods she’d been eating. She was warned away from all dairy products, citrus, most tree nuts, and even canola oil. She who was vegetarian by then had to resume eating meat; meals would have been almost impossible otherwise. And she enjoyed those steaks.

Her skin cleared. It wasn’t peaches-and-cream or anything lovely – too many years of insults had roughened her face and aged it prematurely – but finally Cheryl could look in the mirror without anguish.

She might have been happy then, but she wasn’t. Liam had reached the challenging age of 2½, and she and Alec were bickering incessantly. Some of the problem was caused by simple sleep deprivation, but most of it came from co-parenting. They had incompatible ideas about breakfast foods, how much TV should be allowed, what kind of toys to acquire. Alec had always been a serious fellow – Cheryl’s sense of humor was one of her attractions for him – but as he passed into his late 20s he became more quiet, prone to minor health complaints, morose, even curmudgeonly. He found Cheryl unsympathetic and she thought he was a drag.