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.” And this is where my revenge began.
When I was growing up, I had always imagined marriage would be different. I pictured Sunday mornings spent in bed, laughing over shared secrets, a partnership built on love and mutual respect. But reality has a funny way of hitting you right between the eyes.
Dan and I had just tied the knot. The wedding was perfect — small, intimate, everything I’d dreamed of. And for a while, it felt like a fairy tale. Dan was kind and funny, and I truly believed we were on the same page about how we wanted to live our lives together. That is, until Karen, his mother, handed me a gift after the ceremony.
This is for you, Lucia. A little something to help you as you step into your new role.” She handed me an ornate box with a wide smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Inside the box was a neatly folded piece of paper. When I unfolded it, my jaw dropped. At the top, in bold, it read: “How to Be a Good Wife for My Son.”
At first, I laughed. I thought it was some joke. Maybe Karen was poking fun at those old-fashioned stereotypes about marriage.
But as I kept reading, my smile faded. It was a list — an actual list of rules I was expected to follow as Dan’s wife.
I looked over at Dan, hoping he’d be just as baffled as I was, but he was busy opening his own gift. A check. A fat one, no less. And me? I got a rulebook.
Later that evening, Dan approached me with a sheepish grin. “You got the rules my mom gave you, didn’t you?” he asked.
“YEP… I did,” I replied.
Dan shifted uncomfortably. “Well, you know, that’s how it must be now. Marriage is different from dating.”
“Wait… You’re serious?”
He shrugged. “It’s just how things are. Mom says it’s important to keep things in order.”
I bit my lip, stunned.
That night, I reread the list — and my fury rose. Here were some of the “rules”:
Rule highlights:
At 6 a.m., be fully dressed with makeup on, cooking a hot breakfast. No veggies, no milk, no butter — only plain eggs and toast on a blue plate.
Do all grocery shopping alone. Dan shouldn’t carry bags; it’s “unmanly.”
After dinner, kitchen must be spotless before Dan even stands up.
Dress conservatively around his friends — nothing above the knee, no low necklines.
Do all laundry, with clothes folded “in threes.”
By the time I finished, my blood boiled. Dan didn’t even flinch when I mentioned it. He accepted it.
But I wasn’t going to.
I decided I’d follow the rules — but exactly as written, and to the most absurd extreme.
The next morning, I woke at 6 a.m., did full makeup, put on a dress… and made the saddest breakfast imaginable. One tiny toast. One unseasoned egg. On a giant blue plate.
Dan blinked at it. “Isn’t there… anything else?”
“Nope! Just following the rules!”
Later, grocery shopping day rolled around. I carried every heavy bag myself and stocked the pantry with quinoa, sparkling water, and green juice — no beer.
“Oh, I didn’t forget the beer,” I told him sweetly. “Too much makes you lazy, remember?”
He looked like he was dying inside.
Then I moved on to the kitchen rule. I cleaned… and rearranged everything.
Plates in the bathroom cupboard. Utensils in the laundry. The toaster in the hall closet.
Dan walked in, confused. “Why is everything all over the place?”
“I’m doing my best! Maybe I should wipe the counters three times?”
He stared at me, lost.
Then came outfit day. I dressed like a Victorian schoolteacher when his friends came over — a high-collar blouse, long skirt, cardigan.
“Why are you dressed like that?” he whispered.
“Your mom said modest! We don’t want them getting the wrong idea.”
Laundry day? I mixed all colors. Everything turned pink. Socks shrank.
Dan held up a pink shirt. “Why are my clothes like this?”
“I must’ve folded them wrong,” I said sweetly. “Next time I’ll fold them in threes!”
Dan finally snapped.
During breakfast — his third bland egg of the week — Karen came over, thrilled.
“Lucia, I’m so glad to see you’re following the rules!”
Dan slammed his fork down.
“Mom, these rules are insane. I’m miserable. Lucia’s miserable. This is NOT how our marriage is going to work.”
Karen froze.
“But, Dan, I just—”
“No, Mom. Lucia isn’t my servant. We’re making our OWN rules.”
She looked stunned as I handed her back the ornate box with a note that read:
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
Karen left, defeated.
Dan turned to me. “I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner.”
I leaned into him. “Better late than never.”
And just like that, we began our marriage — without lists, rules, or outdated expectations.
