“Don’t spend anything on yourself this year — you’ll pay for your sister’s wedding, we’ve already decided,” his father informed him.
The voice on the line sounded casual, as if his father were simply saying they needed to buy bread for dinner. No more, no less.
Kirill froze, staring at the laptop screen. There glowed an Excel spreadsheet, his personal financial Everest.
Cell G12 showed “750,000.” The sum he had been saving for three years, denying himself everything except the bare essentials. The first payment for a studio apartment on the city outskirts.
“What’s been decided?” he asked again, though he understood perfectly the first time. He just needed a few seconds to regain the ability to breathe.
“Polina is getting married. To her Igor. They want a summer wedding, a proper one. Restaurant, photographer, dress… You know. We figured around one and a half million.”
His father didn’t ask — he asserted. In his world, the question was already closed, the checkbox ticked, the problem solved using the inexhaustible resource: his eldest son.
“Dad, I… I don’t have that kind of money. I’ve been saving, you know. For an apartment.”
Kirill ran his hand through his hair. He felt an unpleasant, sticky sweat crawling down his neck.
“The apartment can wait,” his father cut him off. “Why are you acting like an outsider? Your sister — that’s sacred. She gets married once, you have to help.”
“Once,” Kirill smirked to himself. Polina had already “once” enrolled in a paid university, and “once” she needed a new car. Every one of those “once” events had been paid by him. Since childhood, he had been taught: you’re the eldest, you’re the support. And he had believed it.
“And Igor? His family? Isn’t it primarily their responsibility?”
“They’re going through a tough time right now,” his father answered evasively, and Kirill detected a note of irritation in his voice. “Igor’s a good guy, but not a genius. And it’s not a man’s job to count money when it’s about a daughter’s happiness. We’re counting on you. Polina has already chosen a restaurant by the water.”
He spoke of the restaurant as if Kirill should be happy about it. As if it were his celebration, too.
“We’ve even paid the deposit,” his father added, finishing him off. “One hundred thousand. From your card. You left your details when you ordered mom’s medicine.”
There it was. The final blow. Not a request. Just a fact. His money had already been spent. His future already canceled.
“I’ll call back,” Kirill said dully and hung up.
He slowly closed his laptop. The glossy cover reflected his face — pale, with an unfamiliar, hard expression in his eyes.
That evening, his mother called. Her voice, unlike his father’s, was soft, coaxing.
“Kirill, don’t be upset with your father. He’s just simple. He cares about Polina.”
“Mom, you withdrew a hundred thousand without asking me.”
“Oh, what do you mean, ‘your money,’ son? We’re family. Can you measure your sister’s happiness in money? She’s glowing, so happy.”
“I’ve been saving for three years, Mom. I’ve been working two jobs.”
“And rightly so, you’re a man. Polina is a girl. She wants a fairytale. You don’t want her wedding to be worse than her friends’, do you?”
Mother skillfully pressed on his guilt. You’re the eldest. You must.
As always, the conversation ended with nothing resolved.
The next day, Polina herself appeared at the door of his rented studio. With Igor.
She fluttered into the apartment, glanced around the modest setting, and curled her lips.
“Oh, Kir, you really live in this dump?”
Igor, a big guy, shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
“Polina, maybe don’t…” he muttered quietly.
“Maybe don’t what?” his sister snapped. “I’m telling the truth! Come in.”
She placed a neatly printed sheet on the table: “Expense Estimate.” The total at the bottom — 1,650,000 rubles.
“Polina, I can’t. That’s everything. I have no more money.”
“What do you mean ‘no money’? You work. You can take a loan. Dad said they’ll approve it.”
“Igor, what do you think?” Kirill suddenly asked, looking straight at the groom. “Is it okay with you that another man is paying for your wedding?”
Igor blushed and lowered his eyes.
“I told Polina we could be more modest… We could save up ourselves…”
“Save up?” Polina snorted contemptuously. “Until retirement? Igor, don’t make me laugh! Kirill, you just don’t want to make an effort for me. You’ve always envied me.”
“Envied? That everything came to you at the snap of your fingers?”
“Stop it!” Her voice rang. “Igor’s embarrassed enough! And you’re whining on top of that!”
Kirill looked at his sister, at her beautiful, offended face, and for the first time in his life felt nothing but a cold, growing irritation.
“I’ll think about it,” he said in a steady voice, knowing it was a lie.
“Perfect!” she immediately brightened. “Oh, almost forgot! We’re going to look at the dress. We need to put down a deposit, fifty thousand. You have it, right?”
She held out her hand, nails perfect. Kirill, broken, took out his wallet. He saw the triumph flash in his sister’s eyes.
The breaking point came on Wednesday. It happened after a call from the realtor.
“Good afternoon, Kirill Andreevich. I’m calling about the studio. Unfortunately, I have some bad news. The sellers are withdrawing the property from sale for you.”
Kirill went cold.
“Withdrawing? Why? We had everything agreed.”
“I’m uncomfortable too. Your father contacted them. He said your family is experiencing serious financial difficulties and that you had to back out of the purchase. They didn’t wait — another buyer was found.”
Father. Called. Said. Decided.
He hadn’t just taken his money. He had invaded Kirill’s future and burned it to ashes. Kirill remembered a phrase his father had thrown out in one of their arguments: “By your age, I was already supporting a family, and you’re still floating in the clouds!”
Now he understood. His father wasn’t just helping Polina. He was punishing Kirill for the ease that Kirill had never had.
Kirill hung up silently. Inside, he felt utterly empty. There was no anger, no resentment. Only a deafening clarity.
He opened his banking app and blocked all his cards. Then he found the number of the wedding agency.
“Hello. My name is Kirill Belyaev. I am the sponsor of Polina Belyaeva’s wedding. I am canceling the financing of this event. All arrangements are null and void.”
There was a brief pause.
“I’m not quite sure I understand…”
“I’ll repeat. There will be no money. The wedding is canceled due to complete insolvency. Goodbye.”
He ended the call and immediately dialed his father’s number.
“Oh, Kiryukh, hi! We’re just discussing the menu!”
“Hello, Dad. I’m calling to inform you that there will be no wedding.”
“And why is that?”
“Because the free banquet is over. Your fairy tale is finished, without ever beginning.”
“You… what do you think you’re doing?!” his father growled.
“No. I decided to save my own life. And you can throw your own celebration. For example, by taking out a loan.”
He hung up and blacklisted all the family’s numbers. Then he opened his laptop, found an old email from a recruiter offering a remote position at another company.
He had been thinking about it for a long time but hadn’t dared. Now there were no doubts. He wrote back: “Is the offer still available? I’m ready.”
Three months passed. Kirill sat in a small café on the waterfront of a southern port city. He worked remotely and rented a room with a view of cypress trees. The salary was lower, but it was enough.
The first month was hell. Messages and calls poured in from unknown numbers. He didn’t answer. One day, a voicemail came from his mother, full of sobs and curses. He deleted it without listening.
Then came a message from Igor: “There will be no wedding. We’ve broken up. I hope you’re doing well.” Kirill simply deleted it. This was no longer his war.
A week earlier, a long email had arrived in the account he had foolishly given his mother years ago. She wrote about their father’s declining health, Polina’s depression, and the recurring refrain: “We devoted our whole lives to you, and you turned out to be a monster.”
He read it to the end. Such a letter would once have plunged him into a whirlpool of guilt. But now he simply hit Delete.
Yesterday, he met a girl. She had brought her coffee-stained laptop into his IT office.
Her name was Dasha, and she worked at the local dolphinarium. They started talking. Today, they had agreed to have dinner together. For the first time in many years, he felt not obligation, but a light curiosity about the future.
Two years passed.
Kirill hammered the last nail into the porch railing. On his property stood a small but sturdy house, which he had built almost entirely with his own hands.
Nearby, in the shade of a peach tree, Dasha was reading a book. At their feet, a shaggy dog, Pirate, napped.
Recently, his cousin — someone he rarely spoke to — had written to him with news.
Polina’s wedding never took place. Igor had moved to another city. Their parents, in order to pay off debts to the agency, sold their garage and took on loans. Their father became frequently ill.
Polina, according to his cousin, had changed several jobs, now lived with her parents, and constantly complained about life.
Her “fairy tale” never happened, and she didn’t know how to live in reality. Their system had simply closed in on itself, devouring the remains of their wellbeing.
Kirill read this without gloating. He felt only a cold relief that he had managed to jump off the sinking ship in time.
“What are you thinking about?” Dasha asked, looking up at him.
“Just… the past,” he replied. “I’m glad it’s behind me.”
“Good,” she smiled. “Will you help me dig the tomato bed?”
“Of course.”
Kirill watched the setting sun, which bathed his land, his house, and his new life in warm light.
For the first time in many years, he felt not like a debtor, but like an owner. The owner of his quiet, simple, and priceless destiny.
