“You’ve got no shame! You don’t have children, but I’m a mother!” — How my sister-in-law stirred a scene at my birthday to avoid paying back the debt
My thirty-fifth birthday was meant to be quiet, without much fuss. But life, as usual, has a way of turning even the most ordinary date into a full-blown drama. A month before the celebration, I got a call from Emily—my husband’s sister, with whom I’d always had strained relations from the very start.
“Where are you planning to celebrate your birthday?” she asked, as if already packing her bags.
“Haven’t really thought about it yet,” I replied, caught off guard. It was too early to discuss, especially knowing Emily’s ways.
“Oh, so you’ve got money to spare. Lend me and Gary five hundred quid. Desperately needed, I’ll pay you back in two weeks tops,” she pleaded in that whiny tone that always sent shivers down my spine.
I don’t like borrowing or lending, especially to people like Emily. From the first months we met, she had tried to “wheedle” money out of me—now for the kids, now for home repairs, now for supposedly broken appliances. I’d always refused—politely but firmly. Until now.
“The kids have a fever, they need medicine,” she said, hitting me with the holy argument.
I caved. Sent the money to her account. Two weeks passed—silence. A month went by—not a word. So I decided: I’d remind her myself at the party.
We celebrated in a cosy little café. Guests laughed, toasts were made. But I couldn’t relax. Emily and her husband showed up on time, chattering, eating, laughing, as if nothing had happened.
“I lent your sister five hundred quid for the kids’ medicine. She promised to pay back in two weeks,” I whispered to my husband when he noticed my unease.
“She won’t,” he said flatly, without blinking. “She’s owed me three hundred for five years now. I know her—you’ll never see that money.”
Still, I decided to bring it up.
“Emily, hi. Thanks for coming. I wanted to talk…,” I started carefully, like stepping onto thin ice.
“Everything’s absolutely lovely!” she interrupted, kissing my cheek. “The food’s divine, especially the corn salad—care to share the recipe?”
“About something else. A month ago, you borrowed money from me…”
Emily threw her head back and laughed:
“Five hundred quid? When did I ever take that from you? You always said no, I don’t recall a thing. Making it up, are you?”
I was stunned.
“I transferred it to your account, for the medicine. I can show you the receipt if you don’t believe me,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn.
Emily paled for a second but quickly composed herself.
“Oh, right… That did happen. I just don’t bother remembering pointless things,” she said through gritted teeth, crossing her arms.
“You promised two weeks. A month’s gone by. I’d like it back…”
And then it began.
“Have you no shame?!” she shrieked loud enough for the whole café to hear. “My kids were ill, and you’re hounding me for money! Of course you wouldn’t understand—you don’t even have children of your own!”
It felt like a slap. Emily was on the offensive.
“And the gift? We bought you a gift! Just forgot it at home. Cost us five hundred, by the way! So we’re even. Never took you for such a miser!”
“What gift? You didn’t give me anything,” I whispered, too shocked to raise my voice.
“Forgot! But it exists!” she barked. “Right, we’re leaving! Gary, let’s go! We’re not welcome here!”
Her husband finished his chicken leg, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and silently followed her out.
As soon as they left, my mother-in-law—Margaret—approached me. Calmly took my arm and led me aside.
“It’s your own fault for lending it. I never give my daughter money. If I do, I know it’s gone. Your five hundred paid for that pendant you saw around her neck.”
My breath caught.
“And no one bought you a gift. Pure fiction. Just be glad it didn’t cost you your health. Consider it a lesson,” she said, winking as if imparting some grand wisdom.
Emily stopped speaking to us. Eight months passed. No calls, no messages. Then suddenly—she was upset I hadn’t congratulated her.
“I thought you’d at least send a transfer,” she said accusingly over the phone.
“Didn’t you get anything?” my husband feigned surprise. “Check last October. Five hundred quid.”
“Very funny!” she hissed and slammed the receiver down.
That was the last we spoke. We met again five years later—at Margaret’s funeral. Six months on, we sold her flat, split the money. And since then, neither of us has reached out first. And truth be told… it’s been a relief.
