My husband’s sister has a knack for the art of subtlety—or what she *thinks* is subtlety. When she says, “Oh, that new animated film looks lovely,” what she really means is, “Drop everything and take my kids to the cinema.” And if she sighs, “What a *gorgeous* day to be stuck indoors,” that’s her way of demanding we haul her little darlings to the park for rides—naturally, on our dime.
I, on the other hand, have mastered the fine skill of *not* taking hints. When her hints escalate into full-blown neon signs, I simply play oblivious. If you want something, ask directly—none of this theatrical sighing. My husband, though? He springs into action like a butler in a period drama.
He adores his nieces and nephews—spoils them rotten, if you ask me. I get it—his sister, Lucy, wants her kids to have enriching experiences. But in my book, arranging said enrichment is a *parent’s* job, not an uncle’s.
Now, I’m not heartless. Treating the nieces and nephews now and then? Absolutely. But it’s not a bloody *obligation*. Take little Oliver’s christening—his birthday had *just* passed, and we’d already splurged on a top-notch bike. But Lucy, ever the strategist, began dropping not-so-casual hints. Apparently, a *bike* was passé. No, Oliver simply *had* to whisk off to Paris for the weekend—with her in tow, naturally, because heaven forbid a child travel *alone*.
Her *subtle* phrasing? “Ollie’s *always* dreamt of seeing the Eiffel Tower!” This grand revelation arrived *mid-party*, right after my husband handed her a cake, not plane tickets. (I missed the theatrics—was busy at work.) He’d gifted Oliver custom pillows spelling his name—hours of online hunting for a christening-worthy present, mind you, since they don’t usually *do* christenings in their house.
Lucy’s demands grow bolder each year, and I’ve had enough. But my husband? Hopelessly devoted. He’d always wanted kids of his own, but life had other plans, so he poured his attention into hers. All Lucy needed was a nudge, and her kids would turn on the puppy eyes, reciting perfectly rehearsed pleas. My husband melted every time—*convinced* his sister would never exploit her own children.
And then—surprise!—I got pregnant.
My husband was over the moon, practically dancing around my ever-expanding waistline. When Lucy next demanded a “little family getaway,” he—*shockingly*—said no, mentioning the *small matter* of our impending baby. Cue outrage. She *ordered* him to leave. Then *phoned me*, screeching about how *dare* I get pregnant, wasn’t I *thinking* of *her* children’s suffering? I hung up.
Next, the nieces and nephews showed up at his office with handmade cards: *”Uncle, please don’t leave us!”* and *”Why do you need your own kids when you have us?”* Suspiciously articulate for under-10s, wouldn’t you say? But backfire *achieved*—my husband came home clutching those cards, facepalming at his own naivety.
“I’ve been a *complete* plonker!” he groaned. *”‘Uncle, the microwave broke, we’re *terrified* of the stove, Mummy can’t afford a new one—pretty please?’* Bloody *hell*, she’s been scripting them all along!”
Overnight, he transformed. Gone was the man who’d hand over his last £20 for their endless whims. He dug out a notebook, tallying *every* penny spent on Lucy’s brood.
Undeterred, Lucy *marched* into our house. “Since you’re having your *own* baby,” she announced, “how about one *last* gift? A *car*—for the *children*, obviously. Then I’ll *never* bother you again.”
My husband wordlessly slapped his expense ledger into her hands. “Pay me back. Six months.” Then he *ushered* her out. “Off you pop. Best start job-hunting.”
Now Lucy’s mates flood my DMs, wailing that I’ve *orphaned* her kids. *Please.* Lucy’s sitting pretty—she inherited their parents’ house *and* kept her ex’s flat. Plus alimony. She’ll survive.
And us? We’ll be just fine.
