Sorry Not Sorry

My cousin stole the twelve thousand dollars I had saved for my son’s leg surgery. “He’ll be fine, kids heal fast,” she said, just before booking a first-class ticket to Paris. But a week later, after a whirlwind of designer shopping sprees and five-star dinners—all meticulously documented on her Instagram—she regretted it. Because I didn’t just get mad. I got evidence. And I made sure the whole world saw exactly who she was.

Chapter 1: The Empty Account

When my cousin Maris posted that Instagram story—her holding up a glass of champagne on a flight to Paris, a triumphant smirk on her face—something felt deeply, fundamentally wrong. Then I saw her designer carry-on in the next shot, a bag I knew for a fact she couldn’t afford. And my stomach dropped. It was the same day I had logged into my bank account and discovered that the money was gone.

My son, Luka, is seven. He was born with a condition that affects the development of his leg, making it difficult for him to walk. It’s not life-threatening, but it impacts everything. The doctors said a corrective surgery could change his life, allowing him to run and play like other kids. I’ve been saving for two years. Every extra shift at the factory, every weekend, every holiday—it all went into that surgery fund. Twelve thousand dollars. It’s not a fortune, but when you’re a single dad working an hourly wage, it might as well be a million.

Luka and I would check the account balance together sometimes, talking about all the things he would do after the surgery. Playing soccer was at the top of his list.

My cousin Maris had moved in with me and my sister, Rhea, three months ago after losing her job. She was always around, playing with Luka, bringing him little treats. Looking back, I should have seen the signs. She was always asking questions—about the surgery date, about the payment plans, about which account I was keeping the money in. I thought she was just being supportive. I thought she was family.

Last Thursday, I logged into my account during my lunch break to move some money around. The surgery fund was empty. Just… gone. I called the bank, my heart pounding in my ears. They confirmed it: several transfers made to a different account over the past week. Small amounts at first, then larger ones. A methodical, calculated draining of my son’s future.

I felt sick. I tried calling Maris. No answer. I texted her. Nothing. Then, the Instagram stories started popping up. First, the airport lounge. Then the champagne on the plane. Then the Eiffel Tower, shimmering against the Parisian sky. Each post was a glittering, public punch to the gut. She wasn’t even trying to hide it.

I called my sister, Rhea, who was just as shocked. “She told me she was going to Paris,” Rhea said, her voice a mixture of confusion and horror, “but she said she’d been saving up for months! Corin, I had no idea. She used my Wi-Fi, my laptop sometimes. I am so, so sorry.”

Yesterday, Luka asked me why I looked so upset. How do you explain to a seven-year-old that someone he trusted, someone he loved, had just stolen his chance to walk normally? He showed me the little keychain of the Eiffel Tower that Maris had given him last week. “Look, Dad,” he said, his voice full of innocent pride. “It’s just like where Cousin Maris is now.” The same keychain she had probably bought with his surgery money.

I finally got through to Maris this morning on a crackly WhatsApp call. Her profile picture showed her sitting at a Parisian café, a croissant in hand. When I confronted her about the money, her response made my blood boil.

“Oh, come on, Corin,” she said, her voice light and breezy, as if we were discussing the weather. “You’re being so dramatic. It’s not like it was an emergency. He’ll be fine. Kids heal fast.” She took a bite of her croissant. “Besides, I really, really needed this trip. Do you have any idea how depressing it is to be unemployed?”

“I’ll pay you back,” she added, as an afterthought. “Eventually.”

Eventually. As if my son’s childhood was just supposed to wait for her to get around to it. I have documented everything. The transfers, the time stamps, the recorded phone call. Maris seems to think that because we’re family, she can just take what she wants without consequences. She is about to learn, very publicly, just how wrong she is.

Chapter 2: The Parisian Shopping Spree

The surgery was scheduled for next month. Tomorrow, I have to call the hospital and cancel it. The thought of telling Luka makes me physically sick. He’s been marking off the days on his calendar, talking endlessly about playing soccer with his friends after he recovers.

Maris keeps posting. Like she’s living in a different reality, one where her actions have no consequences. Designer shops, fancy restaurants, tourist traps. Each post tags the location, a digital breadcrumb trail of my son’s stolen future. She even had the nerve to post a photo of a charity donation box at Notre Dame with the caption: Feeling so blessed. #GivingBack.

I’ve muted her on everything, but Rhea keeps sending me the screenshots. “You need to document everything, Corin,” she says. She’s right. Each post isn’t just a slap in the face; it’s a confession, showing exactly where my son’s surgery money went.

The worst part? Some of our family members are already trying to smooth things over. “She’s just going through a hard time,” my aunt—her mother—told me over the phone yesterday. “She’ll pay it back. Don’t make this a family drama.” As if my son’s ability to walk is just “collateral damage” for Maris’s “hard time.” I am not backing down. Not this time. Luka deserves better than “eventually.”

Chapter 3: A Tale of Two Sisters

I thought filing the police report would be the hard part. It turns out, that was just the beginning. The police were straightforward but unhelpful. “Since she had access to your Wi-Fi and devices while staying in your home,” the tired-looking officer explained, “we have to treat this as a civil matter. You’ll probably need to pursue it through small claims court.” Not exactly the response I was hoping for, but at least it was all officially documented.

Meanwhile, Maris’s Parisian adventure continued to unfold on social media like some twisted reality show for the morally bankrupt. Yesterday, she posted a “haul video”—three new luxury handbags, a pair of shoes that probably cost more than my car, and what she called her “Paris wardrobe upgrade.” The total she casually mentioned spending would have covered Luka’s surgery and his physical therapy for the next year. She even tagged the stores. #LivingMyDreams.

But here’s where it gets interesting. My sister, Rhea, a quiet, unassuming librarian, turned out to be a surprisingly ruthless private investigator. She started doing some digging and found out that Maris had been telling different stories to different family members. To our aunts, she claimed I had “offered to help fund her fresh start.” To our cousins, she was saying the money was a “loan we had agreed upon.” And to her own parents, she insisted I was just being “generous” because she was family. The stories kept changing, but they all had one thing in common: somehow, I was the bad guy for wanting the money back.

Maris’s parents called me last night. They offered to “help.” Their idea of help? Two thousand dollars, paid in installments over six months. Because apparently, that’s a fair solution when their daughter has stolen twelve thousand dollars from her seven-year-old cousin who needs surgery. I told them I’d rather see them in court. The silence on their end was very, very telling.

Luka has been asking questions. He’s a smart kid. He noticed I had taken down the calendar where we were counting down the days to his surgery. I tried to explain that we just needed to wait a little longer, that there was a “paperwork delay.” He just looked at me with those big, knowing eyes and asked, “Is it because Cousin Maris needed the money more than I needed to walk right?”

Seven years old, and he’s already learning the hardest lessons about the people who are supposed to love him.

I got a text from Maris this morning, a masterpiece of gaslighting and self-pity.

Maris: Look, I get that you’re mad, but you are making this into a much bigger deal than it needs to be. I’m not STEALING, I’m BORROWING. Besides, what’s the rush? It’s not like Luka’s dying or anything. Kids are resilient.

Resilient. As if that makes it okay. As if his resilience is something she has a right to test.

Rhea has been my rock through all of this. She helped me document every single transaction, every lie, every social media post. She even set up a spreadsheet, tracking every purchase Maris so proudly broadcasted to the world. “Evidence,” she calls it. She’s right. Maris is building our legal case for us with every single post.

The family is split right down the middle now. Half of them think I should be “more understanding” because Maris is “going through a phase.” The other half are horrified but don’t want to “get involved.” Only Rhea is openly standing with me. She told our aunt yesterday, “A phase is getting a bad haircut or dating a drummer, not stealing a child’s surgery fund.”

I had to make some tough calls today. I officially canceled Luka’s surgery. We lost our spot and have been put back on the waiting list. It could be months, maybe even a year, before we get another date. Then, I called my bank again. They’re still “investigating.”

Maris’s brilliant solution, which she offered when I finally got her on the phone? “You should just start a GoFundMe or something. I’m not really in a position to pay you back right now.” When I reminded her of the designer shopping spree she had just posted, she actually said, “That’s different. I needed those things for my image. How else am I supposed to network and find a new job?”

The real kicker came this evening. Maris posted a long, rambling Instagram story about “toxic family members” and the importance of “learning to put yourself first.” The irony would be hilarious if it wasn’t so infuriating. I’m meeting with a lawyer next week. The family is already calling me “dramatic” for bringing lawyers into “family business.” But then I watch Luka at the park, limping but determined, trying so hard to keep up with his friends, and that’s all the motivation I need.

And the latest development? Maris is back from Paris. And instead of laying low, she’s hosting a “Parisian-themed dinner party” to share her “travel experiences.” She actually had the nerve to invite me and Luka. The invitation, sent via text, read: Let’s put all this drama behind us! Luka would love to see the presents I got for him in Paris!

Presents. As if some cheap tourist trinkets could make up for stealing his ability to run.

Chapter 4: Karma Needs a Little Push

I didn’t go to her ridiculous Parisian dinner party. But Rhea did. And she recorded everything on her phone, openly, like she was just another guest capturing the moment for her Instagram story. Maris was in full performance mode, showing off her photos, bragging about every purchase. Then she got to a video that made my blood boil. She was at some fancy café, holding up her wine glass to the camera. “Shout out to my cousin Corin’s savings account for making this trip possible!” she’d declared, a triumphant smirk on her face. “Sorry not sorry!” Her friends were laughing in the background.

She had recorded herself admitting to the theft, thinking it was a hilarious joke. Rhea sent me the video immediately. When Maris noticed, she started screaming at Rhea to delete it. The whole party devolved into chaos.

But here’s where it gets interesting. Remember how Maris had been “job hunting”? Well, it turns out she had actually landed a position at a local financial company, set to start the following week. A Financial Coordinator position. Handling company money. The job description specifically mentioned the need for “high ethical standards.”

I sent the hiring manager a simple, polite email. I included the links to Maris’s public social media posts, including the now-infamous “sorry not sorry” video. I didn’t add any emotional commentary. I just let her own words and actions speak for themselves. Here is your future Financial Coordinator, bragging about stealing twelve thousand dollars from a child’s surgery fund.

Maris’s job offer was rescinded within hours. She showed up at my house that night, pounding on the door, screaming. “How dare you! You ruined my career! I was going to pay you back with that job!” Luka was terrified. I had to call the police to get her to leave.

Her parents, who had been defending her for weeks, finally saw the video from the party. Their tone changed completely. They were now demanding that she sell her new designer bags and her “Paris wardrobe” to start paying me back. Her response? She locked herself in her old room at their house and started posting Instagram stories about being “attacked by toxic family members.”

The real breakthrough came at a family dinner at our grandparents’ house. Maris tried to play the victim again, but this time was different. Our grandfather, a quiet man who never takes sides, had been watching her social media all along. “You bought three designer handbags,” he said, his voice low and steady, “while Luka can barely walk properly. Shame on you.”

The room went silent. For the first time, Maris’s dramatic tears didn’t work. No one was buying her excuses anymore. Her own parents backed me up when I mentioned the civil court case. The fallout was immediate and absolute.

Chapter 5: The Reckoning

Maris’s mom went through her recent purchases and started listing them on resale sites. Her dad called my lawyer to work out a repayment plan. Maris is still resistant, still playing the victim, but now she’s completely isolated. No more family enablers. No more excuses.

The money started to come back, slowly at first, but steadily. Her parents set up a direct deposit from their account to mine, with monthly payments until the full amount, plus interest, was repaid. The family dynamic has shifted completely. Maris isn’t getting invited to gatherings anymore. Her cousins have unfollowed her on social media. Even her closest friends are distancing themselves.

Last night, she posted a new story: Sometimes hitting rock bottom is what makes you realize who you really are. It was attached to a screenshot of all her deleted Paris posts. Maybe reality is finally sinking in. Or maybe not. I just got a text from her: I hope you’re happy. My life is ruined, and it’s all your fault.

No, Maris. You did this to yourself. And now, finally, everyone knows it. The court date is still set for next month, but her parents are pushing her to settle before then. Either way, Luka is getting his surgery. It’s just a matter of time.

Final Update: A New Beginning

Karma, it turns out, is a patient and creative force. The day of Luka’s rescheduled surgery consultation, my phone started blowing up with frantic messages from Rhea. Maris had shown up at her parents’ house in a hysterical state. She had just been rejected from another job, her social media history once again coming back to haunt her. She started screaming, demanding they “fix it.” When her mother refused, Maris lost it. She started grabbing her mother’s designer bags, screaming that if they were going to sell her things, she would sell theirs, too.

Her dad recorded the whole meltdown. In the video, you can hear Maris shrieking, “You chose Corin over me, your own daughter!” Her mom’s response was perfect: “No, Maris. We chose what’s right over what’s wrong. We failed you by never teaching you that difference.”

That’s when Maris smashed a family heirloom, a vase from our great-grandmother, against the wall. The neighbors called the police. Her parents didn’t press charges, but they cut her off completely. No more phone bill, no more emergency credit card, no more living in their house. They told her she needed professional help, and they would support that, but nothing else.

Maris’s response was to go nuclear on social media, posting a series of wild, fabricated stories about everyone in the family. No one believed her. Her own followers, who had witnessed her Parisian shopping spree and subsequent meltdown, turned on her. The comments were brutal. Finally, she posted a tearful video, claiming she was being “cyberbullied,” then disappeared from the platform.

Here’s the real karma, though. The Financial Coordinator position she lost? The company reposted the job. And guess who got it? My sister, Rhea. She started last week.

The family gathered for dinner last night, without Maris. Her parents brought the final check to cover the remaining balance of the surgery money. As we were sitting there, Maris started spam-calling everyone, her messages switching between threats and tearful apologies. No one picked up.

Her last message to me read: I hope you’re happy. You’ve turned everyone against me. I will never forgive you for this.

I didn’t respond. I was too busy helping Luka pack his overnight bag for the hospital. His surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning.

This morning, something unexpected happened. A package arrived. Inside was an envelope with two thousand dollars in cash and a handwritten note.

Dear Corin and Luka,

This is all I have left. I sold my laptop. I’m sorry it’s not more. I’m sorry for everything. I know sorry isn’t enough, but it’s all I have.

Maris

I’ve added the money to Luka’s recovery fund. As for Maris, last I heard, she’s staying at a youth hostel and finally starting therapy. Her parents are sticking to their boundaries. They will pay for her counseling, but nothing else.

Luka’s surgery is in twelve hours. He’s nervous, but he’s excited. This morning, he said something that put everything into perspective. “Dad,” he said, “when I can run, I’m going to run so fast that all the bad stuff can’t catch up to us.”

Run fast, kid. You’ve earned it.

If a family member stole the money your child needed for life-changing surgery—bragged about it online, mocked you, and treated your son’s pain like a joke—would you ever forgive them once they finally hit rock bottom? Or is remorse that only shows up after consequences just another version of manipulation?