“Don’t spend money on yourself this year. You’ll pay for your sister’s wedding. We’ve already decided,” the father informed him in a routine voice, as if he were saying they needed to buy bread for dinner.
Nothing more, nothing less. Alejandro froze, staring at the laptop screen. There glowed an Excel spreadsheet, his own financial Everest.
Cell G12 showed “€15,000.” The sum he’d arrived at after three years of depriving himself of everything but the bare essentials. The first payment for a studio apartment on the outskirts of Madrid. “What do you mean, you’ve decided?” he asked, although he’d understood perfectly from the first sentence.
He just needed to buy a few seconds to breathe again. “Lucia’s getting married. To Javier.
They want a summer wedding, beautiful, proper. Restaurant, photographer, dress… you know. We estimate it will take around €20,000.”
The father wasn’t asking, he stated.
In his world, the issue was settled, the tic already set, the problem solved at the expense of the infallible resource: the eldest son. “Dad, I… I don’t have that money. I’m saving, you know.
For an apartment.”
Alejandro ran his hand through his hair. He felt a sticky sweat run down the back of his neck. “The apartment can wait,” his father interrupted.
“What’s the matter, aren’t you family? A sister is sacred. She only gets married once, you have to help her.”
Just once?
Alejandro smiled to himself. Lucía had already had “just once” when she entered private university, and “just once” when she needed a new car. And he had paid for every one of those “just onces.” Since he was a child, he’d been told: you’re the oldest, you’re the support.
And he believed it. “And Javier? His family?
Isn’t that his obligation first?”
“They’re having a tough time now,” the father responded evasively, and Alejandro heard a note of irritation in his voice. “Javier’s a good boy, but he’s no eagle. Besides, it’s not a man’s job to count money when it comes to a daughter’s happiness.
We’re counting on you. Lucía has already chosen a restaurant by the Manzanares River.”
She talked about the restaurant as if Alejandro should be happy. As if it were his party too.
“We’ve already paid the deposit,” the father concluded. “€1,000. From your card.
You left the details when you ordered your mother’s medicine.”
And there it was. The final blow. It wasn’t a request, it was a fact.
His money had already been spent. His future, canceled. “I’ll call you later,” Alejandro said in a muffled voice and hung up.
He slowly closed the laptop. The shiny lid revealed his own face: pale, with a hard, unfamiliar expression in his eyes. That night his mother called.
Her voice, unlike his father’s, was soft and gentle. “Ale, don’t be mad at your father. He speaks simply.
He cares about Lucía.”
“Mom, you’ve withdrawn €1,000 without permission.”
“What do you mean, ‘yours,’ son? We’re family. Can your sister’s happiness be measured in money?
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