Just over a year ago, my younger sister Rose got married. Now, she’s days away from having her first baby. Her husband’s family is drowning in debt, still paying off the wedding. As soon as I heard, my first instinct was to help.
The problem? I work as an office clerk in Manchester, barely scraping by. The only money in sight was my wife Lisa’s £750 “maternity fund” — savings left to her by her late mother. Every time I’d brought it up before, she’d say:
“That money’s for when we have our own baby. Don’t touch it.”
But this time, I told myself it was different. She’s my sister. Blood.
When Lisa refused, I pushed harder — maybe too hard.
“Can’t you stop being so self-centered? She doesn’t even have a pram!”
Her eyes went cold. Without a word, she returned with a small box, dropping it in front of me. Inside weren’t banknotes — but medical records. Fertility tests. Hormone reports. An IVF estimate for £1,200.
Her voice trembled:
“That money… is my only hope to be a mum. And you call me selfish?”
I sat frozen, the weight of her silent battles crushing me. I had been ready to empty her dream for someone else — without ever asking what she needed most.
That night, I didn’t beg for money. I begged for her forgiveness.
