The board game café and pub I used to work at taught me many things, and one of those was to never mix business with pleasure without some strong guarantees.

The place’s owner had only me, his sister, and two close friends on call, with various flaky part-timers going through revolving doors for various reasons. Somehow, despite being placed fairly in the way of nightlife, and advertised in English, too, this was more than enough.

Then, one day, [Owner]’s sister found herself a girlfriend. Said girlfriend was at first merely invited to hang out at the cafè, but soon enough, she had started to invite friends over… and let them eat and drink for free.

The tales of [Sister]’s generosity soon spread to the extended friend circles, increasing the number of people occupying tables and eating or drinking for free little by little.

Things came to a head when, one Saturday night, the number of [Sister]’s friends and “acquaintances” was enough to occupy all but two seats, and the overall bill, by all accounts, should have been around 1,100€, instead of 0€. This was made worse by the fact that the people got hostile with patrons who did intend to pay to stay there and that [Sister] had forced me and a poor b*****d expecting an easy job to rush around to all the tables while being treated like dirt for not conjuring food out of our behinds.

The next week, the owner saw the expense ledger and demanded an explanation. Let’s just say it’s lucky he didn’t try to bite his sister’s head off.

As soon as [Sister] told her girlfriend that she was going to charge her for food and drink, she got ghosted.

I have been the person shopping at ridiculous hours on Christmas Eve. In my defence, it really wasn’t my fault!

Some years back, my husband and I drove down on Christmas Eve to join my parents for the holiday. Mum immediately assigned us tree decoration duty, so we were upstairs digging boxes of decorations out of the spare room when we heard the sounds of other people arriving. We came downstairs to the delightful but confusing sight of my sister and her five children walking in the front door. Delightful, because they live in a different country and we only get to see them maybe once every second year. Confusing, because we didn’t know they were coming this year… and because we didn’t know they’d be there, we hadn’t brought them any presents. We were planning to ship them later.

My sister’s four older children were all in their late teens or early twenties, and theoretically, we could have told them, “Oh, heck, we didn’t know. We’ll have to give you an IOU!” Her youngest child, on the other hand, was four or five at the time, and we weren’t going to do that to him. (And to be honest, even if the others would have been fine with it, we would have felt terrible.)

Me: “Oh, hey! Excellent timing! [Youngest], you guys are just in time to decorate the tree! Here’s the tinsel and ornaments. You guys have fun! Great to see you, Sis; WHAT A SURPRISE! Honey, I forgot something; WE HAVE TO GO SHOPPING!”

Mum: “What? Now? Can’t it wait until Boxing Day? They just got here; you can’t—”

Me: “NOW.”

We raided the mall like a pair of desperate Vikings — extra desperate because it was seven pm… in a small country town that usually shuts down completely at five pm and on weekends… on Christmas Eve… which fell on a Sunday that year. We honestly expected nothing to be open, and on the way there, we came up with a fallback plan that involved getting cash out of an ATM and wrapping it up in silly ways to disguise it. Amazingly, though, half the shops were still open, and we actually managed to get good presents for everyone.

Later that night, I cornered Mum in the kitchen.

Me: “Why didn’t you tell us [Sister] and the kids were coming?!”

Mum: “What are you talking about? Of course, I told you! We’ve been planning it for ages!”

Me: “You might have been planning it for ages, but it wasn’t with us! The first we knew about it was when they walked in the door!”

Mum: “I told you! I’m sure I told you! Well… I think I told you… I was talking to your sister about it for months!”

Me: “Talking to her about something and expecting me to know about it worked when we all lived in the same house, but not anymore!”

A few Christmases ago, my younger sister brought her boyfriend to our family gathering. The largest box under the tree was addressed to “[Younger Sister] and Cats”.

Sister’s Boyfriend: “We appreciate the gift, but you know the cats are just going to play with the box.”

Me: “Their gift is the box.”

[Sister’s Boyfriend] stared at me with the open-faced shock of someone whose mind has just been blown.

I had bought the largest box possible at an office supply store, cut a pet door in the side, and reinforced the corners with duct tape.

My family and I were living in a beach town, all of us adults. I’m trans male or non-binary (AFAB). I’m very modest; I’m not into wearing bikinis, not because I’m chubby but because I don’t want my crotch and t*ts out.

For my birthday, I was given a gift certificate for $300 to a fancy swimsuit boutique. My oldest sister took me since I couldn’t easily get there without a car.

Sister: “Look at these!” *Holds up string bikini bottoms* “I wear the same ones! We could match.”

Me: “How big do those go? You have a much smaller butt than me.”

Sister: “Oh, I don’t know, but there are strings, so it’s adjustable.”

I turned to the owner, who knew my sister.

Me: “What size bottoms does [Sister] wear?”

Owner: “Large. But I have an extra large.”

I looked at this tiny, short, skinny woman and wondered what she thought was large. She was the owner, designer, and seamstress.

I tried on the strip of fabric. (I was wearing a thong under for sanitary reasons.)

Me: “I don’t want to show you both how this looks. It is way too small.”

Sister: “Don’t be silly. We are all women here!”

I sighed and opened the fitting room curtain.

Owner: “That looks fine! The strings were long enough—”

I silently turned around; the whole upper half of my butt was exposed.

Sister: “Well, clearly you just need thong bottoms!”

Me: “No.”

Owner: “Oh, you just need to pull it up.” *Yanks the thing up into my buttcrack*

Me: “Most people in this town are closer to my size… Would you consider making larger options, and I could come back?”

Sister: “Don’t be rude!”

I’m average to small on top, but I still had trouble. And the stuff was so expensive that the certificate only bought me like four outfits.

I had to be passive for family dynamic reasons; I’m not normally such a pushover.

My family then pressured, shamed, and cajoled me into wearing these humiliating outfits, also requiring that I shave, which is hard for sensory reasons. Normally, I would go to the beach in leggings and a long-sleeved shirt.

The funniest part is that this isn’t even the reason I live on the other side of the planet from them now and don’t talk to them.

I’ve since learned that nothing is worth putting up with people who disrespect my body and identity so blatantly. If a situation will destroy my mental health, it’s unlikely any good will come of it. Trying to pretend to be what others want, especially with changing and unreasonable expectations, will destroy me. I can’t just grin and bear that forever.

If you have some people dictating who you are allowed to be, ask yourself why you are there, and if it’s worth it.

My youngest brother is nine years younger than me. One night, my other brother (only two years younger than me) and I are having a conversation about sexism, and we throw around some terms that the youngest hasn’t heard before.

Youngest Brother: “What’s a misogynist?”

Me: “If you’re a misogynist, it means you think that men are better than women. If you’re a misandrist, it means you think women are better than men. And if you’re a feminist, it means you think men and women are equal.”

Youngest Brother: “Oh. I want to be a feminist, then.”

He’s going to do fine in life.

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