The ordeal of my name began in 1959 — long before computers and auto-correct. My older sister was named Olive, after our mother, and the next, Pearl, for our grandmother. I was the seventh and last child born. Noticing the pattern — Olive and Pearl, fruit names tucked into honorifics — I would be the cherry on top: Cherryl (pronounced Cherry-L). Nonetheless, with a simple misspelling on the birth certificate, I became Cheryl.
Mom still pronounced it with the hard "ch" sound, like chew. But to Dad, I would always be Cherry-L — his caboose, the final addition to a family full of stories. He decorated birthday cakes and signed cards with the double r as if reclaiming something lost. Mom would gently (or not-so-gently) correct teachers who softened it to a "sh." Somewhere along the way, I learned to spell my name with two Rs everywhere except school.