I’m 72 now, alone for a long time. My wife, bless her soul, she understood. My son though…he married an American girl. Lovely girl, smart, kind. But she kept her name. And now my grandson, his name is not mine. I remember when my daughter-in-law told us. We were at their house, a big dinner, like always. Everyone laughing, my wife beaming. And she just, so casually, “Oh, we decided I’m keeping my maiden name.” My son, he just nodded, like it was nothing. My heart sank. I tried to smile, to be the good father. But it felt like a punch. My father, he would have… well, he wouldn't have understood. We came here, my parents and I, with nothing. We worked our fingers raw so I could go to school, so I could build something. So I could carry on the family. That was the whole point. The name, it wasn't just a label. It was everything we brought with us, everything we built here. A legacy. Now, it just dies with me. My son, he just doesn’t get it. "Dad," he'd say, "it's just a name." JUST A NAME? It’s who we are. It’s a thousand years of farmers and scholars and stubborn old men. And my grandson, he’ll never know it. Never say it, never write it. It makes me feel like I failed. Like I let everyone down. Like everything was for nothing. I look at his little face, my grandson. He’s a good boy. He’s happy. And he has his mother's last name. And part of me, the part that worked so hard, the part that still dreams in a language no one here speaks, that part just…aches. It’s silly, I know. A name. But it's not. It's not just a name.