**Diary Entry – 17th May**
My thirty-fifth birthday was meant to be quiet, nothing too flashy. But life, as it tends to do, turned an ordinary day into a full-blown drama. A month before the celebration, my sister-in-law, Gemma—someone I’d always had a strained relationship with—rang me out of the blue.
“So, where are you planning your party?” she asked, as if she’d already packed her bag.
“I haven’t thought about it yet,” I replied, caught off guard. It was too early to discuss, especially knowing Gemma’s ways.
“Oh, so you’ve got money to spare! Lend me and Harry five hundred quid. Desperately needed—I’ll pay you back in two weeks, tops,” she pleaded in that whiny tone that always set my teeth on edge.
I don’t like borrowing or lending, especially to people like Gemma. Ever since we first met, she’d tried to wheedle cash out of me—for her kids, for home repairs, for some broken appliance. I always refused, politely but firmly. Until now.
“The kids are ill—need medicine,” she said, hitting me with the guilt-trip.
I caved. Sent the money. Two weeks passed—silence. A month—not a word. So I thought, *Fine, I’ll bring it up at the party.*
We were at a cosy little café. Laughter, toasts, good food. But I couldn’t relax. Gemma and Harry arrived on time, chatting away, tucking into the buffet as if nothing was amiss.
“Your sister borrowed five hundred quid for medicine—said she’d return it in a fortnight,” I whispered to my husband when he noticed my unease.
“She won’t,” he said flatly. “Still owes me three hundred from five years ago. You’ll never see that money again.”
But I had to try.
“Gemma, hi. Thanks for coming. I just wanted to talk—” I started carefully, like treading on thin ice.
“Everything’s absolutely lovely!” she cut in, kissing my cheek. “The food’s divine—that corn salad, you must give me the recipe!”
“Not about that. A month ago, you borrowed money from me—”
Gemma threw her head back laughing. “Five hundred quid? When did I ever take that from you? You always said no—I don’t remember this. Making things up now?”
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, my face burning.
Gemma paled but quickly pulled herself together.
“Oh, *that*. Honestly, I don’t bother remembering trivial things,” she sneered, crossing her arms.
“You promised to return it in two weeks. It’s been a month—I’d like it back.”
And then it exploded.
“Have you no shame?!” she shrieked loud enough for the whole room to turn. “My kids were ill, and you’re chasing me for money! Of course, you wouldn’t understand—you don’t even have children!”
It felt like a slap. Gemma went for the kill.
“What about the gift? We bought you a present! Just forgot it at home. Cost us *five hundred*, by the way! So we’re even. Didn’t peg you for such a miser!”
“What gift? You didn’t give me anything,” I whispered, dazed.
“We *forgot*! But it exists!” she barked. “Right, we’re leaving! Harry, let’s go—this is humiliating!”
Her husband finished his chicken leg, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and followed without a word.
As they left, my mother-in-law, Margaret, pulled me aside.
“You asked for trouble, lending to her. I don’t give my daughter money unless I’m prepared to lose it. Those five hundred? They went on that necklace she’s wearing.”
My breath caught.
“And no one bought you a gift. Pure fiction. Count yourself lucky it wasn’t worse. Consider it a lesson,” she said with a wink, as if passing down wisdom.
Gemma stopped speaking to us. Eight months passed—no calls, no texts. Then, out of nowhere, she rang, affronted.
“I thought at least you’d send a birthday transfer!”
“Didn’t you get anything?” my husband feigned surprise. “Check October last year. *Five hundred quid*.”
“Very funny!” she snapped, slamming the phone down.
We haven’t spoken since. Met again five years later—at Margaret’s funeral. Sold her flat, split the proceeds. Neither of us has reached out since.
And honestly? Life’s been easier.
**Lesson learned: Never lend what you can’t afford to lose—especially to family.**
