My father sat at the dining table, his shawl slipping from weary shoulders. His voice broke the heavy silence.

“They refused,” he murmured. “Twenty lakhs—that’s their price.”

He looked up, eyes bloodshot, his gaze cutting through the room.

“Tell me,” he whispered, his voice trembling, “where am I supposed to find twenty lakhs? But your sister says she deserves a well-off groom.”

I nodded absentmindedly, lost in the momentum of my final year in medical school. A residency awaited, an MS abroad followed, and the dream of neurosurgery felt within reach. The world stretched wide before me.

At home, Father paced, his mind ensnared by the same unyielding dilemma.

“Father,” I murmured, breaking the tension. “This isn’t right. We can’t—”

He slammed the table, his voice raw. “We will. She’s your sister.”

The old clock ticked, cutting through the heavy silence. I stared at my textbooks, the diagrams fading under the weight of my father’s words. My sister’s marriage hung over the family like a storm cloud, oppressive, and unyielding.

Weeks bled together. One evening, Father returned, his shoulders bowed. He sank into the chair by the window, his voice barely a whisper.
“Another demand,” he said. “Twenty-one lakhs.”

“Twenty-one. For a groom without a steady job?” Mother gasped, clutching the edge of the doorframe. “Where would we find—?”

“Where, indeed?” My father snapped.

The next morning, a man arrived, his kurta pristine, his demeanor confident. After pleasantries, he spoke.

“I’ve come with a proposal—for your son.”

Father stiffened. “My son? He’s... he has plans.”

Father's fingers drummed on the armrest, his voice faltering. "My eldest daughter is still unmarried. How can I wed my son first?"

The man, composed, offered a solution. "My daughter is kind and educated. I'll provide a dowry to help with your daughter's wedding. Marry your son to her later—for now, just give me your word."

From the doorway, my chest tightened. The words escaped before I could stop them. "No," I said, my voice shattering the silence. "You can't."

Father turned, his voice cutting through me. “Can’t? Do you think I enjoy begging at every door for your sister?”

Father’s words stung, but I held my ground. “I have a career, Father,” I said, my fists trembling. “I’m not ready—”

“And your sister? Should I abandon her because your dreams are bigger?” His voice broke, and for a moment, I glimpsed the tears he struggled to hide.

That night, I lay awake staring at the creaking fan. My father’s hunched shoulders, my sister’s bitter silence, my mother’s hollow eyes—all haunted me. I was at a threshold: one step forward, and my dreams vanished; one step back, and I betrayed them all.

At dawn, I found Father at the table, staring at his hands.
“I’ll do it,” I murmured.

***

Two years after my sister’s wedding, I stood beside my bride in a modest ceremony. My sister smiled from the crowd.

Sometimes, stepping over a threshold isn’t choosing yourself—it’s placing hope in sacrifice.