For years, there was an unspoken pattern in my relationship with my sister-in-law, one that started as an occasional inconvenience and slowly turned into a quiet source of resentment. Every shared outing ended the same way. When the bill arrived, there would be a brief pause, a dramatic search through her purse, and a familiar smile followed by the same line: “I’ll get you next time.” Next time never came. What once felt minor gradually became routine, and the routine became exhausting.
I told myself it wasn’t worth addressing. Family, I reasoned, required flexibility and patience. Small financial imbalances weren’t worth tension, and generosity was simply part of keeping the peace. But over time, it stopped feeling generous and started feeling expected. The relationship began to resemble an obligation rather than a mutual connection.
So when she excitedly announced reservations at an upscale restaurant downtown, describing the atmosphere and menu with enthusiasm, I felt immediate unease. I knew how the evening would likely end, and the thought of covering another expensive bill filled me with quiet dread.
The restaurant was as extravagant as promised. Soft lighting, crisp linens, and prices that made me pause. She ordered freely and confidently, selecting multiple appetizers, the most expensive entrée, and a dessert to share. I kept my own order modest, determined not to let my discomfort show or derail the evening.
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