My husband’s sister seems to believe it’s our duty to spoil her children.
She’s never one for plain speaking. When she remarks, “Oh, that new animated film looks lovely,” it means my husband is expected to drop everything and whisk his nieces and nephews off to the cinema. And if she sighs, “Such glorious weather, and you’re all cooped up indoors,” that’s her roundabout way of demanding we take her little ones to the park for rides—naturally, at our expense.
I’ve never had the knack for reading between the lines. When her hints grow too glaring, I simply pretend not to notice. If you want something, ask outright. No need for theatrics. My husband, however, is always quick to oblige his sister’s unspoken requests.
He adores his nieces and nephews—perhaps, in my opinion, to a fault. I understand Marina’s feelings; her wish for the children to have a richer upbringing is hardly surprising. Yet I’ve always held that arranging their amusement ought to fall to their parents. Grandparents, aunts, and uncles shouldn’t bear the burden.
Of course, treating the little ones now and then is only right. Family is family. But it isn’t an obligation! Take young Oliver’s christening, not long ago. His birthday had already passed, and we’d given him a fine gift—a sturdy bicycle, no small expense. But Marina, ever the opportunist, still made her usual veiled remarks. Apparently, a top-quality bike wasn’t quite enough. She fancied a weekend jaunt to Paris—for herself, naturally, as the little lad couldn’t possibly travel alone.
Her hint took the form of: “Ollie’s always dreamt of seeing the Eiffel Tower.” The meaning became clear when my brother-in-law handed her the christening cake rather than the plane tickets. I wasn’t there—work kept me away—but my husband went alone, presenting Oliver with a set of embroidered cushions spelling out his name. We’d scoured the shops for something befitting the occasion, though truth be told, such celebrations had never been a tradition in his household.
Marina’s demands have only grown more extravagant over the years, and I’ve had quite enough. Yet my husband, ever doting, wouldn’t hear a word against her. He’d longed for children of his own, but fate had other plans, so he poured his affection into his sister’s brood. All it took was a nudge from Marina—a rehearsed pout, a sugary plea—and he’d be off, wallet in hand. I saw through it; he refused to believe his sister could be so calculating.
Then, unexpectedly, I fell pregnant.
The moment I told my husband, he was over the moon, dancing giddily around me, eyes glued to my growing belly. When Marina next hinted at a holiday, he actually refused, announcing—with no small pride—that he’d soon have his own child to provide for. His sister was scandalised. She ordered him out, then rang me in a fury. How dare I conceive? Didn’t I realise I was robbing her children? I didn’t linger on the call.
Days later, the nieces and nephews arrived at his workplace with handmade cards. “Uncle, please don’t leave us,” one read. “Why do you need your own when you already have us?” I wonder who put such words in their mouths—certainly not their own doing. Marina had miscalculated. The effect was quite the opposite.
My husband came home, holding those pitiful cards, and cursed himself for his years of folly.
“Absolute fool, I’ve been!” he groaned, mimicking their whines. “‘Uncle, the telly’s broken, and Mummy can’t afford a new one—won’t you help?’ She’s been at it all along! Sending them to beg, and me, blind as a bat, handing over the last of my wages!”
His stance shifted in an instant. Once, he’d have given his last penny for Marina’s children. Now, he tallied every shilling spent in a ledger.
Still, Marina had the gall to march into our home, bold as brass.
“Since you’ll soon have your own baby,” she announced, “perhaps one last favour, brother? A car, so I can ferry the children about?”
In response, my husband thrust his accounts under her nose. “Repay every farthing,” he said, then showed her the door.
“Best be off,” he called after her. “You’ll need to find employment.”
Now Marina’s friends bombard me online, wailing that I’ve left her children destitute. I pay them no mind. Marina’s hardly wanting—she inherited her parents’ estate outright, keeps one flat while renting the other, and collects alimony besides.
She’ll manage. And so shall we.
