My family name would garner much more respect in the community just one generation ago. My grandfather was the one who migrated here from Russia during economical collapse with four children, a dead wife, cigars and a dream. It started as a tobacconist, then a news agency, then a post shop. For twenty five years, he ran the post shop, then his children did. Until dad and uncle Misha scraped up knuckle and bone, sold the shop and bought a pair of suits. The two climbed ranks without gear, without safety hooks. Built wealth with their souls. All of that, and for what? For me to be snorting lines off a marble countertop with hundreds of dollar bills? I scrub a hand over my hair, spiky, mousy brown, shaved close to my head. It was an impulsive decision made at a late hour of night while most definitely under the influence. But it’s just hair. Hair grows back. My ties to the family will never grow. They will never be cut either. It’s in my name. I will be respected to my face and that’s all I care about. The adults in my family fear me. I’m the loose thread they can’t cut, the threat they can’t snuff out.