My brother-in-law’s sister seems to think it’s our duty to spoil her kids rotten.
My husband’s sister has a knack for speaking in riddles. When she says, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to take the kids to see that new animated film?” it really means my husband ought to drop everything and whisk his nieces and nephews off to the cinema. And if she sighs, “What glorious weather—shame to waste it indoors,” she’s actually asking us to take her children to the park for rides. Naturally, on our dime.
I, on the other hand, have never been one for hints. When they do get painfully obvious, I play dumb. If you want something, ask outright—no need for theatrics. But my husband? He jumps at every veiled request.
He adores his nieces and nephews—too much, in my opinion. I get it—Marina wants her kids to have fun. But arranging their leisure shouldn’t fall on us. Grandparents, uncles, aunts—that’s not our job.
Now and then? Fine. We’re family, after all. But it’s hardly an obligation! Take little Oliver’s name day recently. His birthday had already passed, and we’d given him a proper gift—a decent bicycle, hardly cheap. But Marina still dropped hints, as usual. Apparently, a quality bike wasn’t enough. No, she fancied whisking him off to Spain for the weekend—with her, of course, because a young lad can’t travel alone.
In hint-speak, it sounded like, “Oliver’s always dreamed of seeing Spain!” But the translation only came on the day when my husband handed her a cake instead of plane tickets. I wasn’t there—working late—but he’d brought Oliver a set of custom pillows spelling out his name. We’d spent ages hunting down the perfect gift.
Marina’s demands grow bolder each year, and I’ve had enough. But my husband dotes on those kids—he’s always wanted his own, but things never lined up. So he poured everything into his sister’s brood. All it took was a pout, a whiny plea, and he’d cave. He couldn’t see how she played them like fiddles—but I did.
Then, suddenly, I got pregnant.
The second I told him, he was over the moon, dancing around my growing bump. So when Marina next begged for a trip, he actually said no—for once—and announced our own baby was coming. She went cold, told him to leave, then rang me in a rage. How *dare* I get pregnant? I was *ruining* her children’s lives! I hung up.
Next, the kids turned up outside my husband’s office with handmade cards: *”Uncle, please don’t leave us!”* and *”Why do you need your own kids when you’ve got us?”* Suspiciously articulate for little ones. I wonder who fed them those lines.
But it backfired. My husband came home clutching those cards, furious with himself.
“Bloody idiot, I’ve been!” he scoffed, mimicking them. *”Uncle, the telly’s broken, Mum can’t afford a new one—won’t you buy us one, pleeeease?”* She’s been playing them against me for years, and I fell for it!”
Overnight, he changed. Where before he’d hand over his last quid, now he sat tallying every penny spent on Marina’s lot.
Unfazed, she still rocked up at ours.
“Since you’ll have your own soon,” she said sweetly, “how about one last favour? A car, maybe? For the kids?”
My husband shoved his notes at her. “Pay it all back. Six months.” Then he shut the door.
“Off you pop,” he called after her. “Best start job-hunting.”
Now her mates bombard me online, wailing that I’ve left children starving and fatherless. Nonsense. Marina’s sitting pretty—kept her ex’s flat, rents out another, plus alimony. And my husband’s inheritance? Signed it all over to her.
She’ll survive.
And so will we.
