My husband’s sister seems to believe spoiling her children is our solemn duty.
She speaks in riddles, her words dripping with implication. If she sighs, “Oh, that new animated film looks lovely,” it means my husband must drop everything and take her little darlings to the cinema. When she muses, “Such glorious weather—what a shame to waste it indoors,” she’s really demanding we ferry them to the fairground, rides and ice creams on our dime, naturally.
I don’t do hints. When they sharpen into something unmistakable, I feign ignorance. If you want something, ask properly—no theatrics. My husband, though, jumps at her every insinuation.
He adores his nieces and nephews—too much, in my opinion. I understand Helen’s longing for them to have enriching experiences, but that’s a parent’s job, not an uncle’s. Grandparents, aunts—they’re extras, not the main cast.
Of course, treating them now and then is fine. Family is family. But it’s not an obligation! Take young Tommy’s christening—his birthday had already passed, and we’d gifted him a fine new bicycle. Not cheap, either. Yet Helen still slithered in with her usual hints. Apparently, a top-tier bike wasn’t enough—Tommy simply *had* to see Paris. And, of course, she’d need to chaperone.
Her coded plea? “Oh, Tommy’s always dreamt of Europe!” The translation arrived when my husband handed her a cake, not plane tickets. I missed the event—working late. He went alone, bearing embroidered cushions spelling Tommy’s name. We’d scoured shops for something fitting—odd, since christenings weren’t their usual affair.
Helen’s demands only grow. It wears thin. But my husband, desperate for children of his own—stalled by fate—poured that longing into hers. A pout, a whimper, and he’d cave. He refused to see how she weaponised them. Then—I fell pregnant.
His joy was blinding. He near danced around my swelling belly. So when Helen next begged a favour, he refused, announcing his own child was coming. She erupted. Told him to leave. Then rang me, shrieking—how *dare* I steal his attention? How *cruel* to rob her children! I hung up.
Later, his nieces ambushed him outside work, clutching handmade cards: *“Uncle, don’t leave us,”* and *“Why need your own when you’ve got us?”* Someone’s coaching was obvious. Yet her scheme backfired.
He came home, cards in hand, disgusted with himself.
“I’ve been a fool!” he spat, mocking their past pleas. *“‘Uncle, the microwave’s broken—Mummy can’t afford a new one, and we’re scared of the stove!’* She’s always used them like this—playing on their tears. And I fell for it. *Idiot.”*
Overnight, he changed. Once, he’d hand over his last pound for them. Now, he itemised every penny spent in a ledger.
Undeterred, Helen arrived at our door.
“Since you’ll have your *own* child soon,” she simpered, “maybe one last gift? A car—for the kids. Then I’ll never ask again.”
Silent, he thrust the ledger into her hands. “Repay every penny. Six months.” Then shut the door.
“Best hurry,” he called after her. “You’ll need a job.”
Now, her cronies flood my inbox—*How could I starve those poor children?* I block them. Helen’s hardly destitute—she inherited her parents’ house, kept her ex’s flat, collects rent *and* child support.
She’ll survive.
And so will we.
