— This year, don’t spend on yourself—pay for your sister’s wedding; we’ve already decided,” his father informed him.
The voice on the phone sounded casual, as if his dad were saying they needed a loaf of bread for dinner. Nothing more, nothing less.
Kirill froze, staring at his laptop screen. An Excel sheet glowed there—his personal financial Everest.
Cell G12 read “750,000.” The sum he’d been building toward for three years, denying himself everything but the bare essentials. The down payment for a studio on the edge of the city.
“Decided what?” he asked, even though he’d understood perfectly the first time. He just needed a few seconds for air to start flowing into his lungs again.
“Polina’s getting married. To her Igor. They want a summer wedding, beautiful, the way it should be. Restaurant, photographer, dress… You understand. One and a half million, we’ve estimated.”
His father wasn’t asking; he was stating. In his world, the matter was already settled, the box checked, the problem solved at the expense of a fail-safe resource—the elder son.
“Dad, I… I don’t have that kind of money. I’ve been saving, you know that. For an apartment.”
Kirill ran a hand through his hair. He felt an unpleasant, sticky sweat creep down his neck.
“The apartment can wait,” his father cut him off. “Why are you acting like you’re not family? A sister is sacred. She only gets married once; we have to help.”
Once. Kirill smirked to himself. Polina had already “once” enrolled in a private university, and “once” needed a new car. He’d paid for each of those “once’s.” Since childhood they’d drilled it into him: you’re the oldest, you’re the support. And he believed it.
“What about Igor? His family? Isn’t it their responsibility first and foremost?”
“They’re having a tough time right now,” his father answered evasively, and Kirill heard a note of irritation in his voice. “Igor’s a good guy, but he’s no eagle. And it’s not a man’s business to count money when his daughter’s happiness is at stake. We’re counting on you. Polina’s already picked a restaurant by the water.”
He spoke about the restaurant as if Kirill were supposed to be happy. As if it were his celebration, too.
“We’ve already put down a deposit,” his father finished him off. “One hundred thousand. From your card. You left the details when you ordered your mother’s medicine.”
There it was. The final blow. Not a request. Just a fact. His money had already been spent. His future had already been canceled.
“I’ll call you back,” Kirill said dully, and hung up.
He slowly closed the laptop. The glossy lid reflected his face—pale, with an unfamiliar, hard look in his eyes.
That evening his mother called. Unlike his father’s, her voice was soft, insinuating.
“Kiryusha, don’t be upset with your father. He’s just being simple about it. He’s worried about Polinka.”
“Mom, you took a hundred thousand without asking.”
“Oh, what do you mean ‘your’ money, son? We’re family. Can you really measure your sister’s happiness with money? She’s glowing, she’s so happy.”
“I’ve been saving for three years, Mom. I worked two jobs.”
“And you were right to—you’re our man. And Polina is a girl. She wants a fairy tale. You don’t want her wedding to be worse than her friends’, do you?”
His mother pressed skillfully on his guilt. You’re the eldest. You have to.
The conversation, as always, led nowhere.
And a day later Polina herself showed up at the door of his rented shoebox. With Igor.
She fluttered into the apartment, took in the modest furnishings, and curled her lip.
“Oh, Kir, so you really live in this hovel?”
Igor, a big guy, shifted awkwardly from foot to foot.
“Polina, maybe don’t…,” he muttered quietly.
“Don’t what?” his sister flared up. “I’m just being honest! Come in.”
She laid a neatly printed sheet on the table. “Expense Estimate.” The figure in the “Total” column—1,650,000 rubles.
“Polina, I can’t. That’s all. I don’t have any more money.”
“What do you mean you don’t? You work. Take out a loan. Dad said you’ll get approved.”
“Igor, what do you think?” Kirill asked suddenly, looking straight at the groom. “Are you okay with another man paying for your wedding?”
Igor flushed and lowered his eyes.
“I told Polina we could keep it simpler… We could save up ourselves…”
“Save up?” Polina snorted with contempt. “By retirement? Igor, don’t make me laugh! Kirill, you just don’t want to make an effort for me. You’ve always been jealous of me.”
“Jealous? Of the fact that everything falls into your lap with a snap of the fingers?”
“Stop it!” her voice rang. “Igor already feels awkward! And you’re whining on top of it!”
Kirill looked at his sister’s beautiful, offended face and, for the first time in his life, felt nothing but a cold, growing annoyance.
“I’ll think about it,” he said evenly, knowing it was a lie.
“Great!” she beamed at once. “Oh, almost forgot! We’re going to look at dresses. We need a deposit, fifty thousand. You have it, right?”
She held out a hand with a perfect manicure. And Kirill, broken, took out his wallet. He saw a glint of triumph in his sister’s eyes.
The snap happened on Wednesday. It came after a call from the realtor.
“Good afternoon, Kirill Andreyevich. I’m calling about the studio. I’m afraid I have bad news. The sellers are taking the property off the table—for you.”
Kirill went cold.
“Off the table? Why? We agreed on everything.”
“I’m sorry as well. Your father contacted them. He said your family is facing serious financial difficulties and you’re forced to back out of the purchase. They didn’t want to wait—another buyer turned up.”
His father. Called. Said. Decided.
He hadn’t just taken his money. He had reached into his future and burned it to the ground. Kirill remembered a line his father once threw out in an argument: “At your age I was already carrying a family on my back, and you keep your head in the clouds!”
Now he understood. His father wasn’t just helping Polina. He was punishing Kirill for a lightness he himself had never known.
Kirill hung up without a word. Inside, there was absolute emptiness. No anger, no hurt. 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 Belyayev. I am the sponsor of Polina Belyayeva’s wedding. I’m canceling the funding for this event. All arrangements are void.”
There was a brief pause.
“I don’t quite understand…”
“I’ll repeat. There will be no money. The wedding is canceled due to complete insolvency. Good day.”
He ended the call and immediately dialed his father.
“Oh, Kir, hey! We were just discussing the menu!”
“Hello, Dad. I’m calling to inform you there will be no wedding.”
“And why is that?”
“Because the free banquet is over. Your fairy tale is over before it began.”
“You… who do you think you are?!” his father growled.
“No. I decided to save my own life. And you can throw your party yourselves. For example, by taking out a loan.”
He ended the call and blacklisted every number from his family. Then he opened his laptop and found an old email from a recruiter with an offer for a remote job at another company.
He’d been thinking about it for a long time but hadn’t dared. Now there was no doubt. He replied: “Is the offer still valid? I’m ready.”
Three months passed. Kirill sat in a small café on the embankment of a southern port city. He worked remotely and rented a room with a view of cypresses. 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. Once a voice message came from his mother, full of sobs and curses. He deleted it without listening to the end.
Then a message arrived from Igor: “There won’t be a wedding. We broke up. Hope you’re doing well.” Kirill simply deleted it. It was no longer his war.
A week ago, a long email came to the address he’d foolishly once given his mother. She wrote about his father’s ruined health, about Polina’s depression. And the refrain: “We devoted our whole lives to you, and you turned out to be a monster.”
He read it to the end. Before, such a letter would have plunged him into a pit of guilt. Now he simply hit “Delete.”
Yesterday he met a girl. She brought her coffee-soaked laptop to his IT office.
Her name was Dasha; she worked at the local dolphinarium. They got to talking. Today they agreed to have dinner together. For the first time in many years he felt not obligation, but a light interest in the future.
Two years passed.
Kirill drove the last nail into the porch railing. On his plot 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 dozed a shaggy dog named Pirate.
Recently his cousin, with whom he rarely spoke, had written to him. He brought the news.
Polina’s wedding never happened. Igor moved to another city. To pay off debts to the agency, his parents sold the garage and went into loans. His father was often ill.
According to his cousin, Polina had changed jobs several times; she now lived with their parents and constantly complained about life.
Her “fairy tale” never came true, and she didn’t know how to live in reality. Their system had simply folded back in on itself, devouring what was left of their well-being.
Kirill read this without gloating. He felt only a cool relief that he’d managed to jump off that sinking ship in time.
“What are you thinking about?” Dasha asked, looking up at him.
“Oh, the past,” he replied. “I’m glad it’s in the past.”
“Good,” she smiled. “Will you help me turn the bed for the tomatoes?”
“Of course.”
Kirill looked at the setting sun pouring warm light over his land, his house, his new life.
And for the first time in many years, he felt not like a debtor, but an owner. The owner of his quiet, simple, priceless fate.