“Have you no shame? You don’t have kids, and I’m a mother!”—how my sister-in-law caused a scene at my 35th birthday to avoid paying back what she owed.
My 35th birthday was meant to be low-key, nothing fancy. But life has a way of turning even the simplest milestone into a full-blown drama. A month before the day, my sister-in-law, Jenny—who I’d always had a strained relationship with—rang me out of the blue.
“So, where are you having the party?” she asked, already sounding like she’d packed her bags.
“Hadn’t really thought about it,” I said, caught off guard. It was too early to discuss plans, especially knowing Jenny’s ways.
“Oh, so you’ve got money to spare then! Lend me and Dave five hundred quid. I’ll pay you back in two weeks, tops,” she pleaded in that whiny voice that always sent chills down my spine.
I hate borrowing or lending, especially to people like Jenny. From day one, she’d tried squeezing money out of me—sometimes for the kids, sometimes for a “broken” appliance, sometimes for home repairs. I’d always said no, politely but firmly. Until now.
“The kids are ill, need medicine,” she said, hitting me with the guilt trip.
I caved. Sent the money to her account. Two weeks passed—nothing. A month—still radio silence. So I decided I’d bring it up at the party.
We celebrated at a cosy little café. Everyone was laughing, toasting, having a lovely time—except me. Jenny and her husband turned up right on time, chatting away, eating, acting like nothing was wrong.
“Your sister borrowed five hundred from me for the kids’ medicine,” I whispered to my husband when he noticed my tension.
“She won’t pay it back,” he said flatly. “Still owes me three hundred from five years ago. Trust me, you’ll never see that money.”
But I tried anyway.
“Jenny, hi. Thanks for coming. I wanted to talk about—” I started carefully, like I was stepping on thin ice.
“Everything’s just brilliant!” she cut in, kissing my cheek. “The food’s lovely, especially that salad—you’ll have to give me the recipe!”
“It’s about the money. You borrowed five hundred last month…”
Jenny threw her head back and laughed. “Five hundred? When did I take that? You always refused me—I’d remember if you’d ever lent me anything! Having a laugh?”
I was stunned. “I transferred it to your account, for medicine. I can show you the proof if you don’t believe me,” I said, cheeks burning.
Jenny went pale but quickly pulled herself together. “Oh right… that. Honestly, I don’t bother remembering pointless little things,” she sneered, crossing her arms.
“You promised two weeks. It’s been a month, and I’d like it back.”
And then—boom.
“You’ve got a nerve!” she shrieked, loud enough for nearby tables to turn and stare. “My kids were ill, and you’re chasing me for money? But then, you wouldn’t understand—you don’t even have children of your own!”
It felt like a slap. Jenny was on the attack now.
“And the gift! We got you a gift! We just forgot it at home. Cost us five hundred, by the way! So we’re square. Didn’t think you’d be so tight-fisted!”
“What gift? You didn’t give me anything,” I whispered, completely thrown.
“We forgot! But it exists!” she snapped. “That’s it, we’re leaving. Dave, let’s go! No respect in this place!”
Her husband finished his chicken leg, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and silently followed her out.
As soon as they were gone, my mother-in-law, Margaret, pulled me aside.
“Your own fault for lending it,” she said calmly. “I never give my daughter money. If I do, I know I won’t get it back. Your five hundred paid for that necklace she’s wearing.”
My chest tightened.
“And no one bought you a gift. She made that up. Count yourself lucky it wasn’t worse. Consider it a lesson,” she said, with a knowing wink.
Jenny stopped speaking to us. Eight months passed—no calls, no texts. Then, out of nowhere, she rang, furious.
“I thought you’d at least send a birthday transfer!” she huffed.
“Didn’t you get anything?” my husband said, deadpan. “Check last October. Five hundred.”
“Very funny!” she hissed, slamming the phone down.
After that, nothing. Five years later, we saw each other at Margaret’s funeral. Six months after, we sold her flat and split the money. Since then? Not a word from either of us. And honestly? It’s been such a relief.
