Oh, you won’t believe what my husband’s sister’s like—she’s got this way of making us feel like we *owe* it to her to spoil her kids rotten.
She never just asks outright. Oh no, it’s always these vague little hints. Like when she says, “Oh, that new animated film looks lovely, doesn’t it?”—that’s code for “Drop everything and take my kids to the cinema.” Or if she sighs, “Gorgeous weather, shame to waste it indoors,” she means, “You lot better take them to the theme park, and you’re paying.”
Me? I just play dumb. If the hints get too obvious, I pretend I haven’t a clue. Want something? Just ask properly—no need for all the theatrics. But my husband? Oh, he’s on it straight away.
He *adores* his niece and nephew. Spoil them silly, if you ask me. Now, I get it—his sister, Lucy, wants them to have fun experiences. But that’s *her* job, isn’t it? Grandparents, aunties, uncles—they should chip in now and then, sure, but they’re not responsible for keeping the kids entertained!
Still, we do treat them sometimes. Family, and all that. But it’s not an *obligation*. Take last month—it was their son Oliver’s name day (we don’t usually celebrate those here, but still). His birthday had already passed, and we’d given him a really nice gift—a proper mountain bike, cost us a fair bit. But Lucy still came round dropping hints, like that wasn’t enough. Apparently, what Oliver *really* needed was a weekend trip to Paris. With her, of course—can’t let a little boy travel alone!
Her masterpiece of hinting went like this: “Ollie’s *always* dreamed of seeing Paris.” Translation? “Book the tickets.” But my husband handed her a cake, not a holiday voucher. I wasn’t even there—had work—so he went alone. He ended up giving Oliver these custom-made cushions spelling out his name. We’d spent *ages* online finding something special for the occasion.
Honestly, Lucy’s demands just keep getting bigger. It’s exhausting. But my husband’s so soft when it comes to those kids—I couldn’t do a thing about it. He’s always wanted children of his own, but it never happened for us, so he poured everything into his sister’s two. All Lucy had to do was nudge them to put on those big puppy-dog eyes and whine in that sweet little voice, and off he’d go, wallet in hand. He never saw how she was using them. *I* did.
And then—I got pregnant.
Told my husband, and he was over the moon. Dancing around like a madman, talking to my belly like it was already a person. Next time Lucy hinted about a trip? He said no—flat out. Told her he’d have his own child to think about soon.
Well. She *lost it*. Kicked him out, then rang me screaming down the phone. How *dare* I get pregnant? I’d *ruined* her kids’ lives! I just hung up.
Then her two turned up outside his office with homemade cards: “*Uncle, please don’t leave us*” and “*Why do you need your own kids when you’ve got us?*” Now, who on earth put *that* idea in their heads? Doubt they came up with it themselves.
Back home, my husband showed me the cards—then facepalmed.
“I’ve been such a *mug*,” he groaned. “*Uncle, the microwave’s broken, we can’t heat our meals after school, we’re scared of the cooker. Mummy can’t afford a new one—please buy us one?*” He mimicked their voices perfectly. “*That’s* how she’s been doing it all along! Coaching them to guilt-trip me. And I fell for it! Absolute *plonker*.”
Total wake-up call. He used to give Lucy whatever she asked for, even if it left us skint. Now? He sat down and wrote out *every penny* he’d ever spent on her kids.
Did that stop her? Nah. She rocked up at our door bold as brass.
“Since you’ll have your own baby soon,” she said, sweet as you like, “how about one last gift? A car—for the kids, you know. Then I won’t bother you again.”
My husband just shoved his expense list in her face. Told her to pay him back—gave her six months. Then shut the door on her.
“Off you pop,” he called after her. “Best start job-hunting.”
Now her mates are blowing up my DMs, saying I’ve *starved* her children and *robbed* them of a father figure. Spare me. Lucy’s doing just fine—her ex-husband left her his flat, she’s got her parents’ inheritance, *and* she rents the other place out. Plus child support.
She’ll survive. And so will we—better than ever.
