**12th April 2024**
My husband’s sister has this charming habit of phrasing her demands as vague suggestions. When she says, *”Wouldn’t it be lovely to take the kids to see that new animated film?”*, what she really means is that my husband should drop everything and take her little ones to the cinema. And if she sighs, *”Such glorious weather outside—shame to waste it indoors!”*, well, that’s her way of asking us to foot the bill for a day at the theme park with her children.
Personally, I’ve never been one for hints. When they get too blatant, I pretend not to notice. If you want something, just ask—no need to dance around it. My husband, though, jumps at his sister’s every whim. He adores his nieces and nephews, spoils them rotten—too much, if you ask me. I understand Emma’s wish for her kids to have exciting outings, but isn’t that what *parents* are for? Uncles and aunts shouldn’t be expected to step in like some sort of glorified entertainers.
Of course, it’s nice to treat the little ones now and then—they’re family, after all—but it’s hardly an *obligation*. Take young Oliver’s recent christening. His birthday had just passed, and we’d already given him a perfectly decent gift—a top-quality bicycle, which cost us a pretty penny. But Emma still dropped her usual not-so-subtle hints. Apparently, a bike wasn’t quite enough. She’d decided a weekend trip to Paris would be more suitable—with her tagging along, naturally, because *”a little boy can’t possibly travel alone!”*
The hint? *”Oliver’s always dreamt of seeing the Eiffel Tower.”* Translation delivered at the party, when my brother-in-law handed Emma a cake instead of plane tickets. I wasn’t there—work kept me busy—so my husband went alone. He’d bought Oliver a set of custom cushions spelling out his name, something we’d spent ages finding online. Not that his family usually made a fuss over christenings.
Emma’s demands grow bolder each year, and I’ve had enough. But my husband dotes on those children, so there’s little I can do. He’s always wanted kids of his own, but things never worked out. So he poured everything into his sister’s brood. All they had to do was flutter their eyelashes and whine sweetly, and he’d scramble to grant their wishes. I saw right through it, but he refused to believe Emma could be so manipulative.
Then—I got pregnant.
When I told my husband, he was over the moon, practically dancing around my growing belly. So when Emma next asked for a holiday, he actually *refused*—even had the nerve to announce our own little one was on the way. Cue the dramatics. His sister sulked, demanded he leave, then rang *me* in hysterics. *How dare I* get pregnant? *Clearly*, I’d done it *just* to deprive *her* children. I hung up before she finished.
Then the nieces turned up with handmade cards outside his workplace. *”Uncle, please don’t leave us!”* and *”Why do you need your own kids when you’ve got us?”* I wonder who *possibly* put them up to that. Doubtful they came up with it themselves. Still, Emma miscalculated. The effect was the *exact* opposite of what she wanted.
My husband came home, clutching those cards, and suddenly saw the truth.
*”I’ve been a complete idiot!”* he groaned. *”‘Uncle, our microwave’s broken—we can’t heat our meals after school, Mum can’t afford a new one, please help!'”* He mimicked their pleading voices perfectly. *”That’s how she’s always done it! Using them to guilt-trip me. And I fell for it—every time!”*
His attitude shifted overnight. Before, he’d hand over his last pound if it made them happy. Now? He sat down and tallied every penny he’d ever spent on Emma’s kids.
Undeterred, his sister had the gall to show up at our door.
*”Since you’re having your own baby now… how about one last gift? A car—for ferrying the kids around. Then I’ll never bother you again,”* she announced.
Instead of answering, my husband thrust his calculations at her. *”Pay me back. You’ve got six months.”* Then he shut the door in her face.
*”Best be off,”* he called after her. *”You’ve got job hunting to do.”*
Now Emma’s friends bombard me on social media, wailing that I’ve *”starved”* her children and *”stolen”* their uncle’s support. I block every one. Emma’s hardly destitute—she inherited the family home when their father passed, kept her ex-husband’s flat as part of the divorce, *and* collects child support. She lives in one property, rents the other—hardly a sob story.
She’ll manage. And so will we.
—*Sometimes it takes becoming a father to stop being a fool.*
