My grandfather was a thief. He stole my grandmother's name and the opportunity that could have taken her out of the backwoods, then left with
another woman by his side. One of them became a prominent law professor, standing at the front of lecture halls talking about fairness and justice. The
other became a renowned fine artist, speaking in front of news cameras about art and integrity. Meanwhile, my grandmother was trapped in the
backwoods her entire life, enduring pointed fingers and malicious insults everywhere she went. She died with her eyes wide open, refusing to rest in
peace. Fifty years passed. I owed everything to the sacrifices of my grandmother and mother. Thanks to them, I made my way out of the backwoods
and became a partner at a top-tier law firm. During recruitment season, I sat in the head interviewer's chair. The young man sitting across from me was
bright, handsome, and the star graduate of a top-tier law school. I flipped through his resume, scanning page after page. When I reached the family
background section, my fingers froze. I stared at that name for a long time. Finally, I lifted my eyes, looked straight at him, and spoke without a trace of
emotion, "You didn't make the cut."
