My sister-in-law, Melissa, has always had that knack for sucking all the energy out of a room and then wondering why everyone looks exhausted. For ten years, I’ve put up with her antics for my brother Brandon’s sake. She’s manipulative, entitled, and somehow always manages to get others to foot the bill — in every sense. But last month, she outdid herself.
It began when Melissa insisted we go grocery shopping together at her favorite overpriced boutique store. She framed it as a bonding moment: “Come on, Hannah, let’s spend time together. It’ll be fun!” Since it was just before her birthday, I figured, why not? Maybe we’d even spot a gift along the way.
The second she stepped out of her car, she couldn’t resist a jab.
“Your shoes definitely aren’t made for hours of walking,” she said, eyeing my heels.
I ignored it and followed her inside. The store was a temple of excess — imported teas, candles that could pay a utility bill, artisanal snacks nobody needed but influencers adored.
Melissa strolled every aisle like she owned it, tossing everything into the cart: six imported candles, designer spices, a $70 bottle of olive oil she swore was “life-changing.” I joked about the piling-up candles; she waved me off, already chasing the next indulgence.
By the time we reached the register, the total hit $1,470.
I froze. But it wasn’t my money. Or so I thought — until she turned to me.
“Oh no! Hannah, I forgot my wallet. Can you cover this? I’ll pay you back at my house.”
I hesitated.
“Mel… this is a lot. Are you sure you need all of this?”
“It’s for my birthday,” she snapped, annoyed. “You know how much planning I do.”
I should have walked away. But avoiding confrontation has always been my weakness, so I paid. She drove off without a word of thanks.
A week passed. At family brunch, I finally asked about the money.
She laughed.
“Oh, come on! Why are you being so greedy? Consider it a birthday gift. You can afford it, Hannah.”
The table went silent. She sipped her mimosa like nothing had happened.
That was my breaking point.
Melissa had been bragging for months about some luxury car she wanted — the kind that screams, “I’m royalty,” despite her terrible credit.
“Brandon’s co-signing,” she told me once. “My credit is awful. That’s why you get married, right?” She laughed.
So I called the dealership anonymously, pretending to inquire about the same loan. I casually dropped her name. Red flags went up. They asked for extra documents, references, proof of income — the whole shebang.
Melissa panicked. Brandon got fed up with her constant rants.
Then came the cake debacle. She had ordered an extravagant, custom cake. I tipped the bakery off — just the facts — that she had a habit of not paying.
“Just be careful,” I said. “You deserve to get paid.”
They required full payment upfront.
“This is insane!” she cried to Brandon. “They never required this before!”
Brandon shrugged. “Then just pay for it.”
“You’re missing the point!” she exploded.
It didn’t stop there. Melissa practically lives on Amazon. So I asked Brandon if I could use his account to buy a Kindle. He agreed. I logged in… and changed the password.
Not out of malice. Purely strategic.
Melissa spent three hours screaming at customer service, blaming the company. Brandon suggested a break.
“That’s not funny!” she snapped. “It’s my birthday soon. I deserve nice things.”
Meanwhile, I sipped wine and let karma run its course.
The grand finale: her birthday party. I casually told relatives how she stiffed me for $1,470. Truth, no embellishment.
The turnout? Sparse. Decorations? For a ghost town.
Her face burned red when she saw the small crowd.
Then came my “gift.” A card with a $14.70 gift card tucked inside.
“Toward your next shopping spree,” I wrote.
She was humiliated — something she’d rarely, if ever, experienced.
A few days later, Brandon called.
“We need to talk about Melissa,” he said.
I braced myself.
“She’s been acting strange. And hearing what she did to you… I see it all now.”
“I’m sorry, Brandon,” I said. “But you deserved to know.”
He sighed. “We’re going to have a serious conversation. If she doesn’t change… divorce is on the table.”
He wasn’t angry, just exhausted from pretending she wasn’t the disaster everyone else saw.
I felt bittersweet. I didn’t want to hurt my brother, but maybe this was the wake-up call he needed.
Melissa? Whether she learns anything is her own battle. But she won’t use me — or anyone else — as her personal ATM again.
So here’s the question: what would you have done in my place?