My Sister Refused to Reimburse Us After Her Daughter Destroyed My Child’s Books—Am I Wrong to Teach Her a Lesson? #10

Alice loved books since she was five years old. I mean, my child collects them the way some kids collect stuffed animals or trophies. Each and every one was a treasured little piece of her world. Now, at 16, that love has grown even stronger.

And when she wasn’t reading? The girl was saving up for her next book haul, carefully stacking each new addition on the shelves in her room.

As her mother, I couldn’t have been prouder. I studied English literature in college, so this was everything I ever wanted for my child: to love something as much as I did.

It was our shared love language.

“This is nice, Mom,” Alice said to me one day when we were sitting in the living room, absorbed in our own worlds.

“What is, sweet girl?” I asked.

“That we can be here together but also lost in our own worlds. I love it.” She smiled at me with genuine love and appreciation in her eyes.

I was downstairs with my sister, Vivian, when it happened.

It wasn’t any special day. Vivian and her 13-year-old daughter, Sienna, came over for tea and cake, just wanting to spend the afternoon together.

Was it anything different from our usual sister and cousin hangouts? Nope, not at all.

After a bit, Sienna excused herself to go to the bathroom upstairs. I should have known something was wrong when she was away for at least ten minutes. Who was I to question the child’s bathroom time?

But the moment Alice got home from her shift at the coffee shop, everything changed.

“Hi, Mom! Hi, Aunt Viv!” she said as she got in and kicked off her boots. “I’m just going to change out of my uniform, and I’ll be right back.”

“Sure, darling,” I said. “Sienna is upstairs, so don’t be alarmed if you hear shuffling in the bathroom.”

Alice laughed and went upstairs, and there was silence for all of five minutes.

Then the scream.

I ran, skipping stairs as I went. My stomach dropped before I even walked into her room.

Alice was standing in the middle of her room, her hands trembling, her breath coming in short gasps. Around her, pages fluttered like fallen leaves. The glossy cover of her special edition of Wuthering Heights lay discarded, bent in half, the spine completely broken.

And there, standing amid the destruction, was Sienna. Arms crossed.

Smirking.

Smirking!

“What the actual…” My voice came out strangled, caught between rage and disbelief.

Alice looked at me, her entire body caving into itself.

“Mom,” she whispered, and that one word shattered me.

“Vivian!” I screamed for my sister.

I wanted to grab Sienna by the shoulders and shake her. I wanted to know what had gotten into her. But I couldn’t. As much as she was my niece, discipline was a parent’s game.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Wren,” Vivian sighed when she came upstairs.

Her eyes flicked lazily over the mess.

“It’s just some books. Did the cat get in here?”

Just. Some. Books.

Alice made a sound, something between a sob and a gasp, and she covered her mouth with both hands.

“Did you do this?” I turned to Sienna, who hadn’t said a word.

Maybe her mother would actually retaliate if there was some proof.

“Yeah,” she shrugged.

No hesitation. No guilt. Nothing.

“Apologize. Now, Sienna,” I snapped.

I was starting to see red.

“Sorry,” Sienna said, rolling her eyes. Her words were flat and meaningless.

“I hope you know that you’re reimbursing us, Vivian. That special edition alone was…”

My sister interrupted me by scoffing loudly.

“Oh, come on, Wren,” she said. “Sienna is thirteen! She’s a kid. Kids make mistakes, you know that. Lord knows you made enough mistakes as a kid.”

Alice let out a sob and bolted from the room.

I followed her downstairs, where she curled up on the couch, pulling her knees to her chest. I ran a hand through her hair, trying to soothe her, but I could feel her shaking beneath my touch.

That was the moment I decided I wouldn’t let this go.

I couldn’t.

While Vivian laughed off my demands for reimbursement, I got to work.

I cataloged every destroyed book, cross-referencing market values. Some had increased in worth over the years, especially the special edition.

By the time I was done, the total had come to $2,300.

“Mom, she’s not going to do anything about it,” Alice told me while making us some tea. “She’s not going to like this.”

“I don’t care, baby,” I said. “Your aunt is going to pay one way or another. Imagine if we went to their home and started emptying out bottles of their nail polish?”

Alice laughed loudly.

“I think Aunt Vivian would actually collapse. Like, faint!”

I smiled at my daughter. It felt good to see a smile on her face.

I sent Vivian an invoice for the damaged goods. Do you know what she did?

She left me on read.

“I told you, Mom,” Alice said when I gave her an update on the situation.

“I’m not done yet, Alice,” I replied calmly.

We were in the kitchen assembling our poke bowls for dinner. I’ll admit, since the incident, I had become more protective over my child. I picked and dropped her off at school and work. I made whatever she wanted to eat. I sat and read in her room while she did her homework.

“Relax, Wren,” I told myself one morning. “Alice is fine.”

Sure, she was fine. But I still wanted to show her that I was on her side.

Then, I moved on to step two.

Filing was easy. The small claims court procedure was seamless. I had receipts, I had market estimates, and photos of the destruction.

I also had Alice’s Instagram account as proof of her owning the books. She kept a beautiful, aesthetic feed of her book adventures.

Vivian, try your hardest, I thought to myself.

“You’re seriously taking this to court?” Vivian screamed into the phone.

“Oh, you’ve been served?” I asked. “I mean, you laughed when I asked nicely, sis. Let’s see if a judge finds it as funny as you did.”

She hung up without another word.

In court, my sister tried her best to downplay it.

Sienna is just a kid!

Books aren’t worth that much.

My sister is being dramatic. She is being unreasonable. She just wants my money!

Thankfully, the judge wasn’t having any of it. With all my evidence in hand, the ruling was swift.

Vivian owed us the full amount.

“You did it, Momma,” Alice said when we stopped for ice cream on the way home.

“I’d do anything for you,” I replied, trying to decide which flavor I wanted.

But honestly?

That was just the beginning.

My sister had spent years curating her image as the perfect, responsible mother. So, I did what any modern parent would. I posted the entire story to our local Facebook parenting group.

I was factual, not petty. I didn’t want to hurt my sister nor my niece. But I needed them to see how wrong they had been.

I included before-and-after photos of the destroyed books and the breakdown of costs. I did not insult my sister; I just stated what happened and how she refused to take responsibility.

“Mom, I don’t want you to fall out with Aunt Viv over this,” Alice said, picking up Ichabod, our cat.

“That’s not on you, my girl,” I said, filling up the cat’s bowl. “You need to understand that your aunt has to take responsibility for her actions. And this is how we’re going to help her see that.”

Alice shook her head. I knew that she wasn’t happy about the Facebook post, but I also knew that she appreciated how hard I was fighting for her.

And as for the post?

It exploded!

Book lovers were outraged. Parents chimed in, furious on Alice’s behalf. Some of my sister’s friends commented, calling her out.

She tried damage control, but it was too late. The more she defended herself, the worse she looked.

“You’re hurting me,” Vivian said on the phone one day. “Everything you’re doing is… hurting me, Wren.”

“You and Sienna hurt my child first,” I replied, sipping my cup of tea. “I’m sorry that it had to be this way, Viv, but come on, she’s my child.”

“And I’m your sister.”

My best friend, Sarah, worked in HR at my sister’s company. And it turned out that Vivian had been gunning for a promotion, one that required integrity and accountability.

When I met Sarah, she told me all about it over dinner.

“I shouldn’t even be saying this, Wren,” she said, cutting into her grilled fish. “But Vivian was in the running, and she seemed like the best candidate for the job. But there’s a lot of people from work on the Facebook group. And her character has been called into question.”

I grimaced.

“I just wanted to teach her a lesson,” I said, twirling my pasta.

“And you did,” Sarah said between bites. “It doesn’t look like Vivian is getting the job this time. Maybe they’ll consider her for the next post, but as of now? Nobody wants to reward her bad behavior with a nice promotion.”

Guess who didn’t get the promotion?

By the time Vivian begrudgingly handed over the money, she was a social pariah.

And I wasn’t done.

In the end, the judge had asked her for more money than I had calculated. He wanted damages for Alice’s pain. So, when the money came, half of it went to Alice, of course.

But the other half?

I donated it to her school library. In Sienna’s name.

Alice got home one afternoon to find a package and a bouquet of flowers waiting for her. Inside was an extremely rare edition of Wuthering Heights, funded by Vivian’s forced repayment.

“Mom,” she gasped, running her hands over the cover.

“Justice, baby,” I smiled.

Alice clutched the book to her chest, tears slipping down her cheeks, this time, not from heartbreak, but from joy.

Because revenge, much like literature, is best when poetic.