Just one week after I moved in with my new husband, Derek, he handed me a gift-wrapped box with a big grin on his face. I thought it might be something sweet—a necklace, maybe. But when I opened it, I found a frilly floral apron and an ankle-length black dress that looked like it had time-traveled from the 1950s.
He looked proud. “It’s your house uniform!” he announced. “My mom wore one every day. It’s just tradition—it makes everything feel more… orderly.”
I blinked, stunned. Was he serious?
“You’re serious?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
He gave me a playful wink. “Totally! No pressure though—it’s just to help you get into the homemaker mindset.”
I smiled stiffly. “It’s definitely a surprise.”
Oh, it was more than that. It was a wake-up call.
I had left a successful job as an analyst when we got married. Derek convinced me that being a stay-at-home wife would be freeing—that I’d have time to discover new hobbies, relax, and eventually focus on starting a family. He made it sound like paradise. And I agreed to give it a try.
But now… I was staring at a costume that screamed, “Be a good little housewife.”
That night, I carefully laid the “uniform” on our bed and smiled to myself. If Derek wanted a traditional wife, I’d give him one—but not the way he expected.
The next morning, I woke up early, put on the old-fashioned dress and apron, and made him a full breakfast. I even vacuumed the living room in pearls, like I was in some black-and-white TV show.
On the third day, Derek grinned as he watched me flip pancakes in the full getup. “See? Doesn’t it just make everything more pleasant?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I said sweetly, my voice dripping with sugar.
By day five, I had taken things to a whole new level. I embroidered a name tag on the apron that said: “DEREK’S FULL-TIME HOUSEWIFE.”
I also started calling him sir.
“Good morning, sir,” I chirped as he walked downstairs. “Would you like your coffee poured for you, or would you prefer to do it yourself, sir?”
He chuckled nervously. “Okay, the uniform is enough. You don’t have to call me ‘sir.’”
I tilted my head. “Should I be waiting by the door at 6 p.m. sharp with your slippers, sir?”
His smile started to fade. “What? No.”
Later that night, I softly knocked on his office door and asked, “Permission to use the bathroom during my shift, sir?”
His expression darkened. “Alright, you don’t have to be sarcastic.”
“Sarcastic?” I blinked innocently. “I thought this was tradition.” I lifted a gloved hand and showed off the entire outfit, complete with the frilly apron and a pair of white gloves I found at a thrift store.
The big moment came that weekend when Derek invited his boss and coworkers over for dinner.
I greeted them in full Stepford Wife mode—curtsy, apron, and all.
“Welcome to our home,” I said brightly. “The master of the house will be down shortly to greet you.”
One man blinked in confusion. “Uh… are you Derek’s wife?”
I smiled and pointed to my name tag. “I am, sir.”
His boss, Richard, looked confused. “What did you do before you got married?”
“Oh, I gave up my dreams the moment I said ‘I do,’” I replied calmly. “Derek prefers it that way.”
The air in the room turned icy. Derek came down the stairs just in time to see the awkward looks flying around the living room.
“Honey, didn’t we agree this joke had gone too far?” he asked, clearly panicking.
“But I’m not joking, sir,” I answered sweetly.
Anita, one of his coworkers, squinted at me. “Did you say ‘proper role’ earlier?”
I nodded. “The homemaker. Derek believes in old-fashioned values. The apron helps maintain the right mindset. Isn’t it darling?”
Derek looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.
After dinner, when the last guest had gone, he finally exploded.
“What was that?!” he yelled, yanking at his tie. “You made me look like some kind of sexist pig!”
I crossed my arms, my voice calm. “Me? I’m just living the dream you picked out for me. Remember? Tradition?”
“That’s not what I meant!” he shouted. “I just thought—my mom always—”
“Your mom chose that life,” I cut in. “You chose it for me.”
He fell silent.
“The uniform wasn’t the problem,” I said. “It was the message behind it. You wanted me to be your wife, but you also wanted a maid, a cook, a mother—without asking if I wanted that.”
He rubbed his face. “Fine. I get it. The uniform was too much.”
“No,” I said, walking over to hang the apron on a hook in the kitchen. “The uniform was the symptom. I’m not your employee. And if you wanted someone to follow orders and wear a costume, you should’ve hired help.”
Then I looked him straight in the eyes.
“You need to figure out if you married me because you love me, or because you wanted someone just like your mom.”
I turned and left the room, heading to bed.
On Monday morning, he kissed me goodbye like nothing had happened.
But when he came home that evening, his face was pale. His hands trembled as he tossed his keys onto the entry table.
“Rough day?” I asked from the couch, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, my laptop on my lap.
“I got called into HR,” he said quietly. “Someone took your little performance very seriously. They’re doing a diversity audit. They asked if my ‘traditional values’ affect how I treat women at work. They’re going to be watching me now.”
“Oh no,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “That must be… uncomfortable.”
His eyes landed on the apron, still hanging quietly in the kitchen. “You win,” he said softly. “I thought I wanted something… but I didn’t realize how messed up it was.”
I shut my laptop. “Good. Because I applied for some remote jobs today.”
He looked like he might argue—but then, he surprised me. He nodded slowly. “I’m sorry. My mom always looked so happy doing it all, I thought…”
“You thought I’d be happy too,” I finished for him. “But I’m not her.”
That night, I shoved the uniform into the back of the closet. Maybe one day we’d find it and laugh about this. Or maybe we’d toss it into a bonfire and watch it burn.
Either way, as I turned from the closet, I felt something powerful and sweet in the air.
It was the scent of victory. And let me tell you—it smelled even better than lemon polish.
