My husband’s sister always expects us to spoil her kids rotten.
She’s the queen of vague hints. If she says, “Oh, the new cartoon’s out, the kids would love that,” it means my husband should drop everything and take his nieces and nephews to the cinema. And when she goes, “Lovely weather, shame to stay indoors,” what she really wants is for us to take her little ones to the park and treat them to rides—on our dime, naturally.
I? I don’t do hints. When they get too obvious, I just play dumb. If you want something, ask properly. None of this passive-aggressive nonsense. But my husband? He jumps the second his sister so much as breathes a wish.
He adores his nieces and nephews—spoils them silly, if you ask me. I get that his sister, Laura, wants them to have fun experiences, but that’s what parents are for, not uncles and aunts!
Of course, treating them sometimes is fine. They’re family, after all. But it’s not an obligation! Take little Oliver’s Christening recently. His birthday had already passed, and we’d given him a nice gift—a proper mountain bike, not cheap either. But Laura still came sniffing around with more hints. Apparently, she thought the bike wasn’t enough. No, what Oliver *really* needed, in her mind, was a weekend trip to France. With her in tow, naturally, because heaven forbid a nine-year-old travel alone.
Her not-so-subtle phrasing? “Ollie’s always dreamed of seeing the Eiffel Tower.” Translation? “Buy us tickets.” But we only found that out when my husband handed her a cake at the party—not a holiday brochure. I wasn’t there; I was working. He went alone and gave Oliver custom pillows spelling out his name. Took us ages to find something meaningful, since they don’t usually celebrate Christenings like that.
Every year, Laura’s demands get wilder. I’m fed up, but my husband’s too soft on the kids. He always wanted his own, but it never happened, so he poured everything into his sister’s instead. All Laura had to do was nudge them to put on those pitiful puppy eyes and whine in that sweet little voice, and off he’d dash to fulfil their every whim. I saw right through it—he didn’t believe his sister would stoop so low.
Then I got pregnant.
Told my husband, and he was over the moon—dancing around my bump like it was the crown jewels. When Laura next asked for a “favour”—another trip, of course—he actually said no. Told her he’d have his own child to spoil soon. She kicked off, demanding he leave, then rang me screaming. “How dare you get pregnant? You’re doing this on purpose to hurt my kids!” I hung up.
Next, the nieces and nephews turned up at his office with handmade cards: *”Uncle, please don’t leave us,”* and *”Why do you need your own kids when you’ve got us?”* Who put them up to it? Hard to say. But Laura miscalculated—backfired spectacularly.
He came home with those cards, furious at himself.
“I’ve been a right idiot!” he muttered. *”Uncle, the microwave broke, we can’t heat our food after school—Mum’s skint, could you buy us a new one?”* He mimicked their pleading tone. “That’s how she always did it—sent them begging, and I fell for it every time!”
Overnight, he changed. Before, he’d hand over his last penny for them. Now? He sat down and tallied up every quid he’d ever spent on Laura’s kids.
Still, she had the nerve to show up at our doorstep.
“Since you’re having your own, maybe one last favour? A car—for the kids, obviously. I’ll never ask again,” she announced, bold as brass.
My husband shoved his spreadsheet into her hands. “Pay me back. You’ve got six months.” Then he shut the door in her face. “Best get job hunting,” he called after her.
Now her mates flood my DMs, blaming me for “starving” her kids. Pfft. Laura’s fine—she got the whole inheritance when her ex waived his share, kept both flats (lives in one, rents the other), plus child support. She won’t starve.
And us? We’re doing just fine.
