Congratulations on your promotion!” Dad raised his shot glass, but his smile never reached his eyes.
I looked around the festive table. Mom was carefully slicing the Olivier salad as if it were a duty, not a joy to be together. My brother Maxim was picking at his plate with a fork, as if he found the meal unpleasant, and his girlfriend Alina sat with her face buried in her phone, wearing an expression that said, “I’m just here temporarily.”
“Head of department…” Mom drew the words out, as if tasting them. “At thirty-three… well done, Katyusha.”
Pride? No. Something else was hidden deeper — more like calculation, a calculation.
“Is the salary good now?” Maxim finally decided to start a conversation.
“Normal,” I answered evasively.
“Well, come on, how much?” He leaned in closer, almost whispering. “Sis, we’re family, no need to hide it.”
Alina suddenly looked up from the screen, interested in me.
“Maxim, don’t interfere,” Dad said, but his voice lacked force.
“Oh come on, Dad. Katya’s a boss now; she can help her family.”
My shoulders tensed involuntarily. Here it was. Not even half an hour had passed.
“By the way, speaking of help,” Mom put down her knife. “You promised to help Max with a laptop? He really needs it for work.”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“Well, have you thought?” my brother smirked. “Or are department heads too busy for family now?”
Alina snorted and covered her laughter with her hand, and I understood: they had planned this all in advance. Even decided who would ask and how.
“Fine, I’ll buy the laptop,” I said quietly. “But it will be a gift, not a—”
“Of course, a gift!” Mom instantly broke into a smile. “I knew you wouldn’t forget your brother. You two were always so close.”
Close. Interesting word. I remembered how Maxim used to pull money out of my backpack at school. How he laughed when I failed to get a scholarship. How for three years straight he forgot my birthday.
“I could use a dress,” Alina suddenly said. “For a friend’s wedding. Maybe we could go together and pick something suitable? You have good taste.”
These were the first words spoken to me in two years of their relationship. And immediately—a request.
“We’ll see,” I answered shortly.
“Great!” Mom nodded approvingly. “Family should stick together. Right, Katyusha?”
I nodded, feeling the celebration evaporate like steam over a hot cup. Five years of work, overtime, nights studying, endless chasing results—all for this evening. And for them—just a reason to ask for money.
“More salad?” Mom slid the dish closer.
“No, thanks, I’m full.”
“Why are you acting like a stranger?” Maxim took offense. “We’re happy for you. Just… well, now you can help us a little. That’s normal, isn’t it?”
Normal. I looked into his confident, even arrogant eyes and wondered: when did this start? When did my family decide that I wasn’t a person but an ATM with a human face?
A year passed quickly. The laptop was bought. And a dress for Alina too. Mom got a new phone; I helped Dad with car repairs. Each time, I told myself: “The last time.” Each time, I believed they’d understand: I am not an endless source of favors.
I was sitting at home working, checking reports, when Mom called.
“Katyusha, we need to meet urgently. Important talk.”
“Mom, I have a deadline tomorrow.”
“It’s a family matter! Come.”
I sighed. For them, “family matter” was always a synonym for one thing.
An hour later, I was home. The whole family gathered at the same table as a year ago. Only now, instead of fake joy, there was businesslike tension.
“Sit down,” Mom pointed to a chair. “Want some tea?”
“Better get to the point.”
Maxim and Alina exchanged glances. She put her hand on his shoulder, and I noticed the shine of a ring on his finger. A wedding band.
“We set the wedding date,” Maxim blurted out. “In three months.”
“Congratulations.”
“We picked the restaurant — ‘Golden Pheasant,’ have you heard? Such a hall!” Alina added.
I nodded, already knowing how this story would end.
“The problem is the price,” Mom put her hands on the table. “One hundred fifty guests, everything must be beautiful. And the guys… well, you know, they’re not all well-off yet.”
“Mom, Maxim is thirty-five.”
“So what?” she frowned. “He’s just starting his career. Not like some.”
That’s how it was. My achievement became a backdrop for a new demand.
“In short,” Maxim leaned back in his chair. “We need help. You won’t refuse your only brother, right?”
“How much?” I asked, though I already felt I wouldn’t like the answer.
“Well…” Maxim hesitated, nervously fidgeting in his chair. “We need the restaurant, a host, a photographer, a good dress for Alina… About a million altogether.”
“A million?!”
“Pay for your brother’s wedding! You earn a lot, so help your family!” Mom said brazenly, as if it was obvious. “What, are you stingy?”
Dad was silent, staring at the tablecloth as if the answers to all questions were there. Alina, not taking her eyes off the screen, still smiled—apparently already imagining herself in an expensive bridal gown. Maxim looked as if I had already signed the check.
“That’s not just a large amount,” I said slowly. “It’s a very, very large amount.”
“Big deal!” Mom waved her hands theatrically. “You have bonuses, premiums, you’re a manager! You won’t go broke.”
“I was saving that money for a down payment on an apartment. A good one, not some Khrushchyovka outside the city.”
“The apartment can wait,” she sharply interrupted. “But the wedding is a life event. Do you want your brother to be known as a pauper? For people to say, ‘The sister has money, but didn’t help her brother’?”
People. Always those mysterious “people” whose opinion somehow matters most.
“I can give a decent amount for the wedding,” I began cautiously. “Say, two hundred thousand. But to pay for everything completely…”
“Two hundred?!” Maxim literally jumped up. “That won’t even cover the restaurant!”
“Then pick a more modest place.”
“MODEST?!” Alina screeched. “Are we homeless or something? All my friends had weddings at the ‘Golden Pheasant’!”
“Katya, don’t disgrace us in front of people,” Mom coldly threw out. “You’re the only one in the family with money. You’re obliged to help.”
Obliged. That word hung in the air, heavy as a weight.
I slowly stood up from the table. My hands trembled, but my voice stayed steady.
“Sit down!” Mom yelled. “We’re not finished yet!”
“We are finished. I won’t pay for your wedding.”
“WHAT?!” Maxim jumped up after me. “Are you crazy? I’m your brother!”
“Exactly. Brother. Not a child to be supported. You’re thirty-five, Max. If you can’t afford a wedding—don’t get married.”
Alina gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Or marry modestly,” I added. “At the registry office, then celebrate in a café with close friends.”
“IN A CAFE?!” The bride nearly choked with outrage. “My friends will laugh at me!”
“Let them laugh. Or let them pay for your celebration if their opinion is so important.”
Mom circled the table and stood in front of me, eyes blazing with fury.
“You’re ungrateful! We raised you, educated you…”
“I am grateful. But that doesn’t mean I have to be your wallet all my life.”
“How dare you?!”
“It’s about time. I say: no.”
Dad finally raised his head, tried to intervene:
“Katya, don’t be angry. You’re family…”
“Family, Dad?” I turned to him. “Where was this family when I worked nights? When I didn’t rest for three years? Who cared how I felt? Who called just to talk, without reason?”
Silence. Everyone looked down.
“Exactly. For you, I became a walking ATM. Insert card—get cash. And almost no one says ‘thank you.’”
“We did thank you…” Maxim muttered.
“Yeah. And immediately asked for more. Laptop, phone, dress, repairs. Now a wedding. What’s next? Buy an apartment? Raise children?”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Mom grimaced. “Just help your brother once properly…”
“Once?” I laughed. “Mom, last year alone, I gave you four hundred thousand! I counted specially. That’s the average person’s salary for a whole year!”
“So what? You have it!”
“I have it because I work like hell. And Maxim? Five years in the same job, didn’t even get promoted. But he wants a grand wedding.”
“Traitor!” he spat.
“Max!” Dad tried to stop him, but without much enthusiasm.
“No, Dad, let him talk. I’m a traitor because I don’t want to finance his show? Fine.”
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. Mom rushed after me.
“Stop! You’ll regret it! Who will help you if you suddenly need it? Strangers?”
I stopped at the threshold and turned around.
“Strangers at least don’t demand a million for family ties. Live however you want. But without my money.”
“Don’t you dare leave! You owe us…”
“I owe you nothing. Nothing at all.”
I slammed the door, went down the stairs, got into the car. My hands shook, but inside I felt strangely light. As if I had dropped a heavy backpack I’d carried for years.
My phone instantly filled with messages. I scrolled through and deleted them unread. Then I blocked all numbers: Mom’s, Dad’s, Maxim’s.
I started the engine and drove out of the yard. In the mirror, I saw Mom on the balcony—waving hands, shouting something. I smiled and pressed the gas. Turns out, freedom costs exactly a million. And that’s cheap, if you think about it.
Two months passed. The silence was deafening.
The first week they called from different numbers. I blocked, set filters, changed settings. Then came visits. Mom waited by my office, lingered by the entrance. I had to warn security.
“Ms. Katerina Sergeevna, your mother is here again,” the concierge reported. “She brought a package.”
“Thank you, Andrey. Don’t let her in.”
I didn’t take the packages. I knew it was just a way to pull me back into the endless cycle of debts and reproaches. Take the pies—get a lecture.
Work got easier. Without constant calls asking for things, I focused on projects. The bosses noticed—offered company-paid training. I agreed.
One day off, sitting in my favorite coffee shop with a book and coffee, I saw a familiar face in the window. Alina. Without Maxim. She hesitated a moment, then came in.
“May I?” she nodded toward the free chair.
“Come in.”
She looked bad—thin, dark circles under her eyes. She sat down and rubbed her hands.
“How are you?”
“Okay. And you? Wedding soon?”
She shrugged.
“Canceled.”
“Why?”
“No money. Maxim tried to get a loan—denied everywhere.”
I nodded. Predictable. Maxim always borrowed but rarely paid back.
“Did you argue?”
“He said I’m mercenary. That I’m only marrying for a fancy wedding. And I…” She faltered.
“What?”
“I thought… maybe he’s right? We’ve been together three years, but I hardly know him. He doesn’t work, just waits for luck. Or for you to help again.”
“And what did you decide?”
“We broke up. Moved out yesterday. I’ll rent a room, find a proper job.”
We were silent. Alina turned her cup in her hands.
“Sorry,” she suddenly said. “For the dress. For everything, really.”
“Forget it.”
“No, really. I thought it was normal—we’re family. Then I saw how they use you. I felt ashamed.”
The waiter brought my cheesecake. I slid the plate to her.
“Eat.”
“Thanks. Katya, can I ask something? Aren’t you lonely? Without family?”
I thought. Lonely?
“Imagine carrying a heavy backpack your whole life. Then suddenly you take it off. At first, it’s strange. Then you realize: how easy it is to walk. I plan to have my own family. Eventually.”
She nodded.
“My mom says you’re selfish. Think only about yourself.”
“Maybe. But for the last twenty years, I thought only about them. It’s time to think about myself.”
We finished the coffee. Alina got up, thanked me.
“Good luck, Katya. You did the right thing. I wouldn’t have dared.”
“You will. When you have to.”
She left, and I stayed. Ordered more coffee, opened my laptop. Ahead was a presentation I had chosen and prepared myself. And no one would tell me what to do.
My phone quietly beeped. A notification from an unknown number. I sighed, opened it—it was from Mom:
“Katya, Dad is ill. Come urgently!”
I snorted, almost laughed. The third time in two months. The first time I rushed over like to a fire, and he was sitting at the kitchen table, crunching a cucumber and telling stories about racing the neighbor in his youth. And Mom immediately started talking about Maxim’s wedding.
I deleted the message without replying. If it were really bad—they would have called an ambulance, not sent texts.
“Anything else?” the waiter asked, approaching with questioning eyes.
“Yes,” I smiled. “A bottle of wine. Today is a special day.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“Two months without toxic relatives. It’s like a birthday… only better.”
He laughed and brought the bottle. I raised my glass to myself. To a new life. To the right to say “no.” To the million that stayed in my account.
Then my phone vibrated again. Another unknown number. I opened it—it was Dad:
“Daughter, Mom is crying. Forgive us. Let’s talk.”
Talk. They always want to talk when they need money. But when I asked for attention, support, just a human connection—they didn’t have time for me.
I blocked that number too.
A week later, I accidentally learned from a mutual acquaintance: Maxim got married after all. But not at the restaurant, at the registry office—no guests, no fuss. Mom didn’t come, called it “shameful.” Alina, it turned out, was right—Maxim quickly found a replacement. The new fiancée has a child; they live in a rented one-room apartment on the outskirts.
“Your mom tells everyone you’re ungrateful,” the acquaintance chirped. “That you abandoned the family in a hard time.”
“Let her say what she wants. I don’t care.”
And that was the absolute truth. Completely, painfully, not care at all.
A month later, I moved. Bought an apartment on a mortgage—the very one I dreamed of. Spacious, bright, with an office and a kitchen where I could cook without rushing. I picked every corner—just for myself.
I was unpacking boxes when the doorbell rang. A courier? Could Mom have found a way past the block again?
I opened the door. Dad was there. Alone. Without Mom. Thinner. Tired. And so… lost.
“Hi, daughter.”
“What are you doing here? How did you find the address?”
“Lenka from the agency helped. Remember her?”
We were silent. He shifted from foot to foot like a guest in a house he wasn’t expected.
“Will you come in?”
“May I?”
He entered, slowly looked around.
“It’s beautiful. Did you choose it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Your head always worked well.”
We sat on the worn sofa in the living room. Silence. Heavy, but not angry.
“Katya,” he finally said. “I came to apologize. Not for Mom. For myself. I know it’s late. But…”
“If you mean money…”
“Not money!” He interrupted sharply. “God, you think that’s all I want?”
“Then what?”
He lowered his eyes.
“I lost my daughter. Because of my stupidity. Because I was silent when I should have spoken. Thought family would sort itself out. But I lost the family.”
My heart clenched. He looked so lonely, so tired of himself.
“Why were you silent then?”
“Coward. Always a coward. Arguing with Mom is costly. Easier to agree. And what I was losing you—I didn’t even realize at first. Old fool.”
I looked at him. The anger was gone long ago. Only pain remained. And a little pity—for him, for me, for the whole situation.
“Want some tea?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
While the kettle heated, I thought. I don’t know if we can start over. But we can try.
“Does Mom know you’re here?”
“No. She’ll be angry when she finds out. But I don’t care. I haven’t seen you in three months. I can’t sleep at night, keep thinking—how did this happen? Raised a beloved person and lost them over nonsense.”
“Not just money, Dad. Because of how you treated me. I became a function—to give money. Not a person.”
“I know. Sorry. If you can forgive me.”
We drank tea. Talked about repairs, his health (turns out his blood pressure really spikes), my plans. Not about Mom. Not about Maxim. Not about debts.
When he got up to leave, he said:
“I’m not asking to go back to how it was. I understand—it’s spoiled a lot. But maybe… at least sometimes we could meet? Have coffee?”
“All right, Dad.”
“That’s thanks enough.”
He left. I stood by the window, watched him get into his old car. He waved. And drove away.
Maybe we really will meet. Coffee, a walk, a conversation. But not like before. I’m no longer an ATM. Not a charity case. I’m a person. With my own life. My own boundaries.
And the million is still with me. Now it will be for new furniture. Or a trip to Iceland—I’ve dreamed of it for a long time.
I smiled at my reflection in the glass.
Freedom, it turns out, doesn’t cost much.
Just a million rubles and one small word: “No.”