I wrote our surname on the envelope in large letters so everyone would know whom the gift was for. Only after the ceremony did I discover my son would no longer carry the same surname as me. He had taken his wife's. I had not heard the part where he mentioned it earlier, or had heard and decided it was a joke. In the restaurant I handed the envelope to his mother and said she needed to explain something to our child. The child was thirty five and paying for lunch for forty people.

My wife did not take the envelope. She said I could ask him. I approached the newlyweds' table wearing an expression familiar from my own father, although I had sworn never to inherit it. My daughter in law immediately stiffened. My son put down his glass and said the decision was as much his as hers. I asked what was wrong with our name. He replied that nothing had to be wrong with one name for someone to choose another.

Someone at the neighboring table asked what we were discussing. Within minutes everyone had an opinion: an uncle mentioned ancestors, an aunt practical documents, and the best man said at least the initials would not change because both names began with the same letter. That angered me further. My daughter in law tried explaining nobody else remained to carry on her family name. My son gently stopped her. He did not want her defending their shared decision through a family report before my relatives.

I went onto the terrace. The bride's mother stood there eating bread because she had not yet had time to sit. I expected her to celebrate her family's victory. Instead she asked to borrow a tissue. She said she would have been equally pleased if they chose a third surname, provided her daughter was happy. I did not entirely believe her but found no polite answer. Through the glass I watched my son laugh at something his wife said and felt lunch passing without me.

I returned and gave them the envelope with its blank side facing up. I delivered no speech and did not claim to have suddenly become a modern man. My son hugged me, and his wife thanked me. Several weeks later I sent them a box of homegrown apples. At the post office I paused at the surname field, then wrote it as it now was. The employee did not look up. The package arrived without difficulty. My son called to say the apples were good, and I asked whether they needed more, as though the whole family could still be recognized through what we sent one another.