When you marry someone, you don’t just marry them; you marry their family. That’s something I thought I understood when I married my wife, Julia. But I didn’t really grasp the full weight of it until the whole disaster with her sister, Monica, unfolded.
I’m a contractor by trade. I’ve been in the construction business for over twenty years, starting out swinging a hammer for someone else before building up my own small company. It’s honest work, sometimes backbreaking, but it pays the bills, and I take pride in knowing that what I build lasts. Most of my jobs are word-of-mouth referrals, because I don’t cut corners. I put my name behind everything I do.
That’s why, when Monica called one spring morning in a panic, I didn’t hesitate to help. A storm had rolled through our county, ripping shingles off roofs and blowing down fences. Monica’s place, a two-story house she’d bought a few years earlier, took a beating. Water had leaked through the roof into her upstairs bedrooms, and she was frantic.
“Can you please come take a look?” she begged over the phone. “The insurance company is dragging its feet, and I can’t afford to wait. The ceilings are literally dripping.”
Julia overheard the call and gave me that look, the one that says, She’s family. We have to help.
So I drove out to Monica’s house that afternoon. Sure enough, her roof was in bad shape. Shingles peeled up like curled potato chips, tar paper exposed, and several areas where water had already made its way in. If she didn’t get it fixed fast, mold would set in.
“I’ll be honest,” I told her. “You need a full replacement. Patching won’t cut it. The storm tore this thing apart.”
She groaned. “How much are we talking?”
I did some quick math. “Materials, labor, disposal fees… about eighteen-eight. That’s with a family discount. I’d normally charge more.”
Her eyes widened. “Eighteen thousand?”
“Almost nineteen,” I corrected. “But remember, this isn’t cosmetic. It’s structural. You’ll have a brand-new roof that’ll last 25 to 30 years if it’s maintained.”
Monica bit her lip. “I don’t have that kind of money sitting around.”
“Your insurance should cover most of it,” I reminded her. “You just have to file the claim.”
“They’re already being impossible,” she complained. “They want inspections, reports, all kinds of paperwork. That could take months.”
“Then you’ll end up with ruined ceilings, warped walls, and a lot more expenses down the line,” I warned.
She thought about it, then looked at me with pleading eyes. “Can you just do the work now, and I’ll pay you when the insurance money comes through? I promise.”
I hesitated. Normally, I’d never agree to that. In this business, handshakes and promises don’t pay for supplies or keep my crew’s checks from bouncing. But this was Julia’s sister. Family. And Monica looked genuinely desperate.
“Fine,” I said finally. “But I’m putting it in writing. You’ll owe me the full $18,800 as soon as your insurance pays out.”
“Of course!” she said eagerly. “You’ll be paid in full. Thank you so much.”
I shook her hand and set to work the very next week.
It was a tough job; her roof was steep, and the storm had left a lot of structural damage that we had to correct before laying down new shingles. My crew worked long days, sometimes skipping lunch, to get it watertight again. By the end of the second week, the place looked better than new.
When I handed Monica the invoice, she smiled and said, “As soon as the check clears, you’ll have your money. Don’t worry.”
But days turned into weeks, and no money showed up.
At first, Monica claimed the insurance company was “taking forever.” Then she said the adjuster was “on vacation.” Then she insisted they had “lost the paperwork.” Each excuse sounded flimsier than the last.
I finally called her directly. “Monica, it’s been six weeks. Where’s the payment?”
Her tone turned defensive. “I told you, the insurance company is dragging its feet. It’s not my fault.”
“It may not be your fault, but it’s still your responsibility,” I said firmly. “You signed a contract. I need that payment. I’ve already paid my crew and suppliers out of pocket.”
She sighed dramatically. “Why are you making this such a big deal? You’re family. Can’t you cut me a little slack?”
That’s when my patience started to fray. “Monica, eighteen thousand dollars is not ‘a little slack.’ This is my livelihood. I can’t just eat that cost.”
She hung up on me.
When I told Julia, she was livid. “I can’t believe she’s doing this to you. To us.”
But Monica dug in her heels. She stopped answering my calls. She ignored emails. When I showed up at her house, she refused to open the door. It became clear that she had no intention of paying me at all.
I had two options: take her to court or walk away and swallow the loss.
Taking her to court meant putting Julia in the middle of an ugly family fight. But walking away meant nearly twenty grand down the drain, money I couldn’t afford to lose. I chose the court.
I filed a claim, and the court date was set. Monica strutted in that day with a smug expression, like she was about to swindle the judge the way she’d tried to swindle me. She claimed I had offered to do the roof for free “as a favor.” She said the contract was “just a formality.” She insisted the work was “subpar” and she shouldn’t have to pay.
But I had documentation. The signed contract. The itemized invoice. Photos of the damage before and after. Even text messages from her thanking me for the “beautiful new roof.”
The judge didn’t buy her act for a second. He ruled in my favor and ordered her to pay the full $18,800 plus court costs.
But getting a judgment and actually getting paid are two different things. Monica still refused to hand over the money. She claimed she was “broke.” She claimed the insurance company had “denied the claim.” She even dared to post photos of her new SUV on social media a week later with the caption, Treat yourself—you deserve it!
Julia was heartbroken. Her relationship with her sister disintegrated. Monica stopped coming to family gatherings. And still, I didn’t see a dime.
I figured that was the end of it. She’d gotten away with it, and I was left holding the bag.
But karma, as it turns out, has a way of evening the score.
The following year, another storm swept through. This one was worse—hail the size of golf balls, winds so strong they snapped power lines. Dozens of houses in town were damaged, including Monica’s.
Her shiny new SUV? Dented like a tin can. Her freshly replaced windows? Shattered. And her roof—the one I had painstakingly rebuilt remained completely intact. Not a shingle out of place.
But the extension she had added a few months earlier? Collapsed. Apparently, she had hired the cheapest contractor she could find, someone who promised to do it “fast and cheap.” He cut corners, used substandard materials, and pocketed most of her money. When the storm hit, the extension crumbled, leaving half her living room exposed to the elements.
To make matters worse, her insurance company discovered she had lied on her claim the year before. She had told them her roof was repaired by a licensed contractor covered by her policy, but when they looked deeper, they found the unpaid judgment against her was my judgment. The insurance company denied her new claim outright, citing fraud.
Suddenly, Monica was on the hook for tens of thousands in damages with no insurance payout.
Word spread quickly in our town. Everyone knew about the court case, about how she had stiffed me, about how she’d flaunted her new car while claiming to be broke. When her extension collapsed, neighbors shook their heads and muttered, “Well, what did she expect?”
Even Julia’s parents, who had tried to stay neutral, turned cold toward her. They told her she had embarrassed the family. That she had disrespected not only me, but the values they’d tried to raise her with.
Monica tried to come crawling back once, showing up at our doorstep with a teary story about how she was “ruined” and “desperate.” She begged me to “forgive the debt” so the insurance company would reconsider her case.
I looked her straight in the eye and said, “Monica, I gave you every chance to do the right thing. You chose greed. Now you’re living with the consequences.”
Julia closed the door on her.
I never saw that money. Not a dime of the $18,800 she owed. But I didn’t need to. Watching karma catch up with her, watching her lose far more than she had stolen from me, was a strange kind of justice.
These days, I tell this story whenever someone asks me about working with family. I still help relatives when I can, but I always make sure the terms are clear and the paperwork airtight. Trust is important—but accountability is even more important.
And every time a storm rolls through and I check on the houses I’ve repaired, I smile knowing that my work holds strong. My name is still good in this town. Monica’s, on the other hand, is mud.
