I’ve always loved my brother, but his wife Aurora has been a walking headache for the ten years they’ve been married. She’s high-maintenance, manipulative, and somehow convinced Maverick he hung the moon. For his sake, I’ve bitten my tongue. Until the day she decided to make me her personal ATM.
It started innocently enough. A week before her birthday, Aurora called.
“Come grocery shopping with me at that gorgeous new boutique market, Indigo! It’ll be fun, just us girls.”
I figured it was a chance to keep the peace and maybe pick up something nice for her birthday. Famous last words.
We wandered the aisles for hours. Aurora tossed in truffles, imported cheeses, six different scented candles, two bottles of champagne that cost more than my car payment, and a random orchid just because it “spoke to her.” The cart looked like a celebrity’s panic-buy before the apocalypse.
At checkout the total flashed: $1,470.
My stomach dropped, but I kept my face neutral. Aurora’s turn to pay.
She patted her designer bag, gave a theatrical gasp, and turned to me with huge innocent eyes.
“Oh no! I must have left my wallet at home. Indigo, could you cover it? I’ll Venmo you the second we get back, promise!”
I could afford it. I just didn’t want to. But the line behind us was growing, the cashier looked exhausted, and Aurora was already fluttering her lashes like this was totally normal.
“Fine,” I said through a tight smile. “But only because it’s your birthday stuff.”
She beamed, kissed my cheek, and practically skipped to her car. Then she drove off without waiting for me.
A week passed. No Venmo. No mention of money.
At Sunday brunch I finally asked.
She laughed into her mimosa. “Indigo, don’t be greedy! Consider it an early birthday present. You’re loaded anyway.”
I saw red.
That was the moment I decided Aurora needed a birthday she would never forget.
First, I remembered her bragging about the luxury SUV she was finally getting. “Maverick is co-signing because my credit is… less than stellar,” she’d giggled. “That’s what husbands are for!”
I made a quiet call to the dealership, pretending to be a concerned friend checking on the approval process. I dropped just enough hints (past collections, missed payments, a few public records anyone could find) to make them nervous. Suddenly they needed three years of bank statements, two co-signer pay stubs, and a utility bill in her name only.
Aurora lost her mind. Every day was a new meltdown about “incompetent salespeople” and “unnecessary red tape.”
Next, the custom six-tier birthday cake from the city’s most exclusive bakery. I texted the owner (we’d gone to college together) and casually mentioned Aurora had a habit of “forgetting” final payments. The bakery switched to full payment upfront. Aurora shrieked to Maverick that it was “humiliating” and “never happened before.”
Then the online shopping. Aurora lives on Maverick’s Amazon Prime. I asked him to set me up on his account “to buy a Kindle.” He happily texted me the login. Five minutes later I changed the password and enabled two-factor authentication tied to my phone.
For forty-eight glorious hours Aurora was locked out of her digital candy store. She spent an entire afternoon on hold with customer service, convinced they’d been hacked. Maverick finally told her, “Maybe take a break from spending for a bit.” She almost threw her phone at him.
The finale was the birthday dinner itself.
I made sure every relative and mutual friend heard the grocery-store story (quietly, politely, with receipts ready if anyone asked). By the night of the party, half the guest list had sudden “scheduling conflicts.”
The dining room looked pathetic: a giant empty table, one sad balloon, and a cake that now felt comically oversized.
“Where is everyone?” Aurora kept asking, voice climbing higher with every empty chair.
Maverick looked confused. “They said they were coming…”
I waited until she blew out the single candle someone had found in a drawer, then slid a birthday card across the table.
Inside: a $14.70 gift card and a note in my neatest handwriting.
A little something toward your next shopping trip. Happy Birthday, Aurora!
Her face went the color of merlot. For once, she was completely speechless.
A week later Maverick called. He sounded exhausted.
“Indigo… I think I’ve been blind. The grocery thing, the car, the cake, the Amazon meltdown… and now everyone knows. I’m starting to see the pattern.”
I let him talk. He needed to get there on his own.
“We’re having a serious conversation tonight,” he said. “If she doesn’t change, I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
Some lessons are expensive. Aurora’s just cost her a luxury SUV, her favorite shopping accounts, half her friends, and (possibly) her marriage.
I’d say $1,470 was the best investment I never meant to make.