You think you’re stepping into a dream when you marry the love of your life. But that dream quickly turns into a nightmare when you’re handed a list of rules on how to be a “good wife.” This is where my revenge began.
Growing up, I pictured marriage as a partnership built on mutual respect. But reality hit me right between the eyes. Dan and I had just tied the knot. The wedding was perfect—until Karen, his mother, handed me a gift after the ceremony.
“This is for you, Lucia. A little something to help as you step into your new role.” She handed me an ornate box with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Inside was a folded paper titled: “How to Be a Good Wife for My Son.” At first, I laughed, thinking it was a joke. But as I read, my smile faded. It was an actual list of expectations. Meanwhile, Dan opened his gift: a fat check.
Later, Dan approached me with a sheepish grin. “You got the rules, didn’t you?” he asked. “YEP… I did,” I replied, dripping with sarcasm. “Well, marriage is different from dating,” Dan said. “Mom says it’s important to keep things in order.” I blinked, waiting for a punchline that never came. Keep things in order? Is that how they saw me now?
That night, my blood boiled as I re-read the insanity:
- 6 a.m. sharp: Fully dressed with makeup, cooking a hot breakfast. Plain eggs and toast only—served on a blue plate because green ruins his appetite.
- Grocery Shopping: Do it all alone. Carrying bags is “unladylike” to ask for help with, and buy just enough beer so he isn’t lazy.
- The Kitchen: Must be spotless before he even leaves the dining room. Wipe counters twice; stack plates by size.
- Modesty: Never wear anything above the knee or with a low neckline, especially around his friends.
- Laundry: Fresh, ironed clothes always ready. Socks folded in threes, never twos.
Dan was fine with it. He hadn’t even flinched. I felt trapped, but I wasn’t about to roll over. If they wanted to play this game, I’d play on my terms.
The next morning, I woke at 6 a.m., put on a full face of makeup, and a nice dress. I prepared the breakfast exactly as instructed: plain eggs and toast. But I took the tiniest slice of toast and one unseasoned boiled egg and plopped them onto Dan’s enormous blue plate. The meager meal looked like a joke. “Isn’t there… anything else?” Dan asked, confused. “Just following the rules!” I smiled brightly. I watched him chew through the driest breakfast of his life.
That afternoon, I made a show of the grocery shopping. I hauled every heavy bag in alone while Dan watched from the couch. “Where’s the beer?” he asked. “I didn’t want you getting lazy,” I said cheerfully, pulling out a six-pack of sparkling water and a pack of quinoa.
After dinner, I rearranged the entire kitchen. Plates went in the bathroom cupboard; the toaster went in the hall closet. When Dan asked why everything was all over the place, I frowned with concern. “I’m doing my best! Maybe I need to wipe the counters three times instead of two?”
A few days later, Dan’s friends came over for football. I leaned into the modesty rule, wearing a high-collared blouse and a full-length skirt that would make a nun proud. I looked like I was teaching Sunday school in the 1800s. “You don’t have to dress like that,” Dan whispered. “But your mom said I shouldn’t embarrass you!” I widened my eyes innocently.
On laundry day, I washed everything together—whites, darks, and colors. Dan’s crisp shirts turned a lovely shade of pink. “What happened to my clothes?” he groaned the next morning. “Oh no! I’ll try folding them in threes next time,” I chirped.
By the end of the week, Dan had had enough. He was struggling through another bland breakfast when Karen showed up, smiling. “Lucia, I’m so glad to see you following the rules! Isn’t life easier?” Dan slammed his fork down. “Mom, we need to talk. These rules are insane. I’m miserable, Lucia’s miserable, and this is not how we’re going to live.”
Karen was taken aback. “I just wanted you taken care of!” “Lucia isn’t my servant,” Dan replied firmly. “We’re building our own family with our own rules. We won’t be treating my wife like a maid.”
Karen sat in stunned silence. I grabbed the ornate box and handed it back to her with a note tucked inside: “Thanks, but no thanks.” As she left, her shoulders slumped. Her influence was over.
Dan wrapped an arm around me. “I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner.” “Better late than never,” I whispered. We began our marriage that day—free of lists, rules, and outdated expectations.