Nobody Was Coming

Renata is my last name.

It is not the one I was given at birth, nor the one I took when I said my vows. I no longer share a last name with my children – the only part of this choice I truly mourn.

Renata is the name I chose for myself at thirty-four years old, and the one that was legally granted to me in my divorce decree.

My children were old enough that this decision felt worthy of being open and honest with them. Before anything became official, I talked with them about my choice – why I was making it, and what it meant. In gentler, age-appropriate words, I told them what I will tell you now.

When I married, I took my spouse’s last name by choice – but it was not a joyful one. I did not want to change my name. It felt like an outdated expectation, a quiet tradition that asked women to disappear a little in the process of becoming a family. I asked questions like, Why do we still do this? Are there other options?

No amount of bringing up my own feelings, concerns, or desires would budge him. According to him, I could do whatever I wanted – but he would never change his last name. What I did not yet understand was that this permission came with consequences: emotional backlash and manipulation if I chose anything other than his name.

For a little over a year after we were married, I kept my birth name. There didn’t seem to be a reason to change it, and I liked it. It wasn’t until I became pregnant with our second baby – our first did not make it to birth – that I began to revisit my initial decision.

This was my chosen family, the one I was building with my husband. Regardless of my personal feelings and beliefs, I would choose what I believed was best for us and for our children – always. I did not raise the argument again. Even then, I think I knew I came last in the family we were creating. I would not fight my husband over last names and I would not give our child a last name that I did not share.

And so, seven months pregnant – nearly two years after I was married – I changed my last name.

Many things happened after that day. Slowly, relentlessly, they accumulated until I filed for divorce and was once again presented with the question I had buried years before: what would my last name be now?

I wrestled with it for a long time. I wanted to keep the same last name as my children. But my beliefs about taking my husband’s name had never changed. I no longer wanted to share something so intimate with him or his family. Many divorced women return to their maiden names – was that what I should do?

No. It wasn’t even a question.

In the years since I was married, I had become estranged from my birth parents and my brother. I had no desire to share a last name with them or to be connected in such an intimate way again.

I could not change my children’s last name without their father’s consent – consent he would never give. Even a request to hyphenate, something that should have been simple, would not be granted.

So the question became: Do I finally choose myself first?

The answer came back, clear and unwavering.

Yes.

My last name came to me quickly. I knew it needed meaning – something aligned with my values, my morals, my becoming. I wanted it to be as unique as my first name.

A simple search brought the word Renata onto my screen. Almost immediately, its meaning followed: reborn, born again. Further reading spoke of new life, of names chosen during spiritual awakenings.

I am not religious. I do not belong to any specific faith. And yet, the name landed somewhere deep inside me – reaching a little girl who never felt loved, safe, or seen, and the woman I had become who was finally learning how to give those things to herself.

I waited weeks before deciding. But the name never left.

When I finally claimed it, I did so everywhere first – social media, new email addresses, digital accounts. I used it on unimportant mail. And when the divorce paperwork asked whether the petitioner requested a name change, I wrote it without hesitation.

My children accepted my explanation with the same ache I felt.

We won’t have the same last name anymore?

No. Not for a while. That makes me very sad. But this is something I need to do for myself.

I told them that one day, when they are old enough, they will get to decide. Maybe they keep their last name. Maybe they change it to mine. Maybe they change it to someone else’s – or choose one entirely their own. That choice will belong only to them.

For now, their last name is the one they were given at birth. It may be different from mine, but we are still a family. Always.

I’ll leave you with this to consider:

Have you ever made a decision that did not account for your desires or your wishes?

How long has it been since you truly chose yourself?

Always with love,
Renata