My husband’s sister decided that spoiling her kids was our job—and ours alone.
I married Andrew nearly eight years ago. He’s kind, considerate, and has a heart of gold. But there’s just one problem—his sister, Emily. A woman with boundless imagination and an uncanny ability to turn any casual remark into a veiled request… for an expensive gift.
She never said anything outright. Her words always floated by like harmless musings:
*”The kids are so desperate to see that new animated film, but tickets are quite dear these days,”* she’d say wistfully. And the moment Andrew caught wind of it, he’d book the tickets, take his nephews to the cinema, and buy them popcorn combos without a second thought.
*”Such lovely weather,”* Emily would sigh. *”Shame to waste it indoors. A trip to the funfair would be perfect!”* And guess who ended up taking her kids on all the rides? Us, naturally. All on our dime.
I don’t do hints. And I refuse to. I prefer straight talk. If you want something, say it. Ask. Explain. Don’t twist and turn, pretending you never wanted a thing.
Andrew, though, always picked up on her “subtlety” immediately. He adored his nephews—madly so. But the way he spoiled them was beyond excessive. Bikes, gadgets, outings—it all became routine. Emily only had to bat an eyelash, and off he’d go.
Recently, it was Oliver’s birthday—her youngest. We’d already splurged on a top-tier bicycle, costing us a small fortune. I thought that was more than enough. But for Emily, a bike was pocket change. No, in her mind, the boy *needed* a trip to Europe—with her, of course. A child couldn’t possibly go alone!
Her carefully crafted hint?
*”Oliver’s eyes light up whenever Paris is mentioned. He’s absolutely dreamy about it…”*
Instead of booking a holiday, Andrew turned up with a cake and a set of monogrammed cushions. I was at work when he went over—and, predictably, Emily was *thrilled*.
But she didn’t give up. Her demands only grew over the years. My husband didn’t seem to mind. We didn’t have kids of our own, so he poured everything into his nephews. Maybe because he had nowhere else to channel that fatherly energy.
Then—news. I was pregnant. When I told Andrew, he cried with joy, kissed my belly, couldn’t believe it. He’d waited years for this. And then… Emily showed up.
Yet again—with a request. This time, a Prague getaway over the spring break. With her kids, naturally. For once, Andrew said no. *”I’m going to be a father. Everything goes to my family now.”* She exploded.
The next day, she called me. Screaming. Accusing.
*”How dare you! This is deliberate. You’re stealing the only man who ever cared for my children!”*
I hung up.
And then—another act. The nephews ambushed Andrew outside his office, clutching handmade cards.
*”Uncle, please don’t leave us…”*
*”Why do you need your own kids when you’ve got us?”*
Someone had *clearly* helped them with the script. And that someone was no mystery.
Andrew came home, sank onto the sofa, stared at the cards—and something inside him *clicked*.
*”I’ve been an idiot,”* he said. *”How many years have I put up with this? The ‘broken microwave’, the ‘no money for coats’, the ‘their dad left—Uncle, fix it’? She’s been using those kids to manipulate me. And I fell for it. Like a fool.”*
Then he grabbed a notepad. Started listing everything: bikes, phones, summer camps, holidays, gadgets, jackets, theatre tickets. The total? A staggering sum.
And then—the finale. The Emily special.
She marched into our house like she owned the place and announced:
*”Since you’re having a baby soon, how about one last favour? Give us your car. Not new—I’m not unreasonable. Just something to ferry the kids around…”*
Andrew handed her the notepad without a word.
*”That’s what you owe. Pay it back. You’ve got six months. After that—court.”*
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the broom fell off its hook.
Cue the social media storm. Emily’s friends bombarded my accounts, wailing about how I’d *”destroyed the sacred bond between uncle and nephews”*, how the children were now *”abandoned, starving, their mother in despair”*.
But I didn’t flinch.
Emily owns two flats—one from her ex-husband, the other because Andrew waived his inheritance in her favour. She gets child support, lives comfortably. She’s just used to getting everything handed to her. Now? Not happening.
We’re having a baby. And for the first time, my husband has a real family—no manipulation, no drama, no theatrics. And somehow, I think this is just the beginning.
