My husband’s sister decided that spoiling her children was our duty—and ours alone.
I married Andrew nearly eight years ago. He’s kind, caring, and has a heart of gold. There’s just one problem—his sister. Marina. A woman with endless imagination and an uncanny ability to turn any casual remark into a veiled request… for an expensive gift.
She never asked outright. Her words always sounded like harmless musings:
*“The kids have been dying to see that new animated film, but tickets are so pricey these days.”* And the moment Andrew heard this, he’d rush to buy the tickets, take the nephews to the cinema himself, and top it off with popcorn combos for both.
*“Such lovely weather,”* Marina would continue, *“and you’re stuck indoors. A trip to the theme park would be perfect!”* Guess who ended up taking her children on the rides? Us, naturally—and footing the bill.
I don’t catch hints—nor do I want to. I prefer honesty. If you need something, ask. Be direct. Don’t twist your words, pretending you never wanted anything in the first place.
Andrew, though, always leapt at her ‘hints’. He adored his nephews—utterly. But the way he spoiled them went too far. Bikes, gadgets, outings—it became routine. Marina only had to bat an eyelid, and off he went.
Recently was little Timmy’s—Marina’s son—birthday. We’d already given him a top-of-the-range bicycle, which cost us a small fortune. I thought that was more than enough. But to Marina, the bike was ‘just a little something’. In her eyes, the child *needed* to go abroad—preferably to Paris, with her in tow, of course.
Her words?
*“Timmy’s been dreaming of Paris—his eyes light up whenever he sees it on telly…”*
Andrew turned up with a cake and a set of monogrammed cushions instead of booking flights. I was at work that day, but by all accounts, it was a cold shower for his sister.
Marina didn’t give up. Her demands grew year after year. Andrew didn’t seem to mind—we had no children of our own, and he poured all his paternal energy into his nephews. Maybe because he had nowhere else to direct it.
Then came the news we’d been waiting for—I was pregnant. Andrew wept with joy, kissed my belly, couldn’t believe it. He’d dreamed of this for years.
And then Marina arrived.
Another ‘request’—this time, a trip to Prague over the May bank holiday. Naturally, with the kids in tow. For the first time, my husband said no. He told her all our resources were going into *our* family now. His sister exploded.
The next day, she called me. Screaming, accusing.
*“How dare you?! You planned this—ripping away the only man who ever cared for my children!”*
I hung up without a word.
Then came the next act. The nephews ambushed Andrew outside his office. Handed him handmade cards.
*“Uncle, please don’t abandon us…”*
*“Why do you need your own kids when you’ve already got us?”*
Someone had clearly helped them with the script. And that ‘someone’ was painfully obvious.
Andrew came home, sank onto the sofa, stared at the cards… and something inside him *clicked*.
*“I’ve been an absolute mug,”* he muttered. *“How many years did I put up with this? The ‘broken microwave’, the ‘no money for a coat’, the ‘Dad left—Uncle, help!’ She’s been using those kids to manipulate me. And I fell for it. Like a fool.”*
Then he grabbed a notepad. Started listing everything—the bikes, phones, summer camps, trips abroad, gadgets, jackets, theatre tickets. The final tally? A hefty sum.
And then—Marina’s grand finale.
She marched into our home like she owned the place and announced:
*“Since you’re having a baby soon, why not do one last kind thing? Give us your car. Doesn’t have to be new—I’m not greedy. Just something to drive the kids around…”*
Andrew wordlessly handed her the notepad.
*“Here’s what you owe. Pay me back in six months. Or I’ll see you in court.”*
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the coat rack toppled over.
After that, the messages flooded in. Marina’s friends bombarded my social media, claiming I’d destroyed the sacred bond between uncle and nephews. That the children were now *“abandoned, starving, their mother in despair.”*
But you know what? I didn’t flinch.
Marina owns two flats—one from her ex-husband, the other inherited after Andrew signed his share over to her. She gets child support, lives comfortably. She’s just used to everybody owing her something.
And now? They don’t.
We’re having a baby. And for the first time, my husband has a *real* family—no manipulation, no drama, no theatrics.
Something tells me this is only the beginning.
