Mikhailovs didn’t need women. At least, that was what I was brought up to believe. It had worked out for me, as my proclivities had me shunning the idea of finding a broad to settle down with. For as long as I could remember, it was just us men. Though my dad was attractive enough, he never dated after I killed my mother, deciding it would be better for Igor and me if he devoted his life to us and, eventually, the mob. He was probably right. A female influence would have no doubt smoothed our ragged edges, making us good but poor. Morality didn’t stop a stomach from rumbling in the middle of the night or keep a roof over a man’s head. While doing the “right thing” may have filled the mind with pride, it never paved a life path with gold. The only way for me to get ahead was to push past any preconceived notions I may have had about what would make me a righteous person. Good wasn’t worth anything if all a man possessed was shoestring ethics that allowed him to shift and change based on his own needs.

Maybe a virtuous life wasn’t meant for me anyway. I often thought I was born bad. Who else but a damaged man could murder his mother as soon as he made his entry into the world? For most of my childhood, I thought something I did in the womb must have caused the complications she succumbed to, that perhaps the challenges she faced were because of my weaknesses. The fact that she survived Igor but died delivering me twisted my self-concept and made me question my worth, leaving me to wonder if I leaked my non-pious poison into her devoutly Jewish blood. I grew up sure her body rejected me when it recognized what I was, and for a while, I hated myself for it.

Realistically, I knew it wasn’t uncommon for women in small Russian villages to die during childbirth, but reason had no place in self-flagellation. It was as though I believed that if I punished myself enough, her death would not have been in vain. I spent a good deal of time trying to blame myself for the circumstances of my life and an equal amount attempting to get the fuck over it. Most of the time, I didn’t know which tactic triumphed, so I kept my head down and continued to do both.

The lack of feminine energy in our apartment had the checks and balances out of whack. We lived like bachelors who prioritized making a name for ourselves rather than participating in the greater good of the household, which was precisely who we were. A three-bedroom residence felt particularly small when there was an asshole behind every door. I had come to terms with the possibility long ago that perhaps I was the worst of us all.