You think you’re walking into a fairytale when you marry the love of your life — but that fairytale can turn into a horror story the moment someone hands you a list of “rules” on how to be a “good wife.” That’s exactly what happened to me. But instead of breaking down, I decided to get even — in my own clever way.
When I was growing up, I always dreamed of what marriage would be like. Lazy Sunday mornings, laughing in bed, whispering secrets, and building a life based on love and respect. I thought marriage meant partnership — not ownership.
And at first, it seemed like my dream had come true.
Our wedding was small, intimate, and absolutely perfect. The flowers, the music, the vows — everything felt magical. Dan, my new husband, was kind, funny, and the man I thought would be my equal in everything.
But that illusion shattered fast — the very night after our wedding.
Dan’s mother, Karen, came up to me with a wide smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “This is for you, Lucia,” she said sweetly, handing me a small ornate box. “A little something to help you as you step into your new role.”
I thought it was jewelry or maybe a sentimental keepsake. But when I opened the box, there was only a neatly folded piece of paper inside.
At the top, written in bold letters, were the words:
“How to Be a Good Wife for My Son.”
At first, I laughed — I actually laughed out loud. “Oh my God,” I said, glancing at Dan. “This is a joke, right?”
But no one was laughing.
When I began reading, my smile disappeared. It wasn’t a joke. It was a list — an actual list — of ridiculous, controlling “rules” I was supposed to follow.
I looked over at Dan, hoping he’d snatch it from me and say, “Mom, are you serious?” But he didn’t. He was too busy grinning at the fat check his mother had given him.
Later that evening, I asked him carefully, “Did you see what your mom gave me?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, the rules. You got them, huh?”
My jaw dropped. “You’re not actually taking that seriously, are you?”
He shrugged. “Well, you know, marriage is… different from dating. Mom just wants to make sure things stay, you know, in order.”
“In order?” I repeated, my voice rising. “You mean she wants to make sure I’m in order!”
He didn’t even deny it.
That night, after Dan fell asleep, I sat alone reading the list again, my anger building with every word. Here are just a few of the gems Karen had written:
- “Wake up by 6 a.m., fully dressed and made up, to prepare breakfast for Dan. He likes plain eggs and toast — no veggies, no milk, no butter. Serve it on a blue plate only. Green ruins his appetite.”
- “Do all the grocery shopping alone. A store is no place for a man.”
- “After dinner, make sure the kitchen is spotless before Dan leaves the table.”
- “Dress modestly when Dan’s friends visit. No skirts above the knee. A good wife never embarrasses her husband.”
- “Never let Dan do laundry. Fold his clothes in threes, not twos. Wrinkles are a reflection of your failure.”
By the time I reached the end, I was shaking — part anger, part disbelief.
But then, I smiled.
If they wanted me to follow these stupid rules, I would. Every single one — but on my own terms.
The next morning, I woke up at exactly 6 a.m. I put on my makeup, styled my hair, and wore a fancy dress. I looked like the picture-perfect housewife — or at least Karen’s idea of one.
Then I made breakfast.
Two dry, unseasoned eggs. One tiny slice of toast. Served perfectly on the sacred blue plate.
When Dan walked in, half-asleep, he blinked at the sad meal. “Isn’t there… anything else?” he asked.
I smiled sweetly. “Nope! The rules say you only like plain eggs and toast. Don’t worry, I made sure the toast is exactly golden brown.”
He sighed and started chewing, looking miserable. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing.
That was just the beginning.
Later, I followed the next rule: grocery shopping alone. I came home carrying every bag myself, huffing and puffing dramatically as Dan watched from the couch.
“Where’s the beer?” he asked, looking through the bags.
“Oh, I didn’t buy any!” I said brightly. “The rules said you shouldn’t have too much, and beer makes you lazy. So I bought sparkling water instead. Much healthier!”
Dan just stared at me, speechless.
That night, I tackled the kitchen. I “cleaned” it according to the rules — which meant I wiped every counter twice but then rearranged the entire space. Plates went in the bathroom cupboard, forks in the laundry room, and the blender under the bed.
When Dan came in, he froze. “Lucia… where’s the coffee maker?”
“In the coat closet, of course,” I said innocently. “Didn’t you read the list? A good wife keeps the kitchen spotless. Nothing out of place!”
The look on his face was priceless.
A few days later, Dan’s friends came over for football night. I took that as my chance to follow Karen’s “modesty” rule to the extreme.
I wore the most conservative outfit I could find — a high-collared blouse buttoned up to my chin, a long skirt down to my ankles, and a sweater that looked like it belonged to a librarian from the 1800s.
When I walked in with a tray of snacks, his friends blinked in confusion.
Dan pulled me aside, whispering, “What are you wearing?”
I widened my eyes innocently. “Your mom said to dress modestly when your friends are over. I just didn’t want them thinking I’m too modern.”
Dan’s face turned red as his friends tried not to laugh.
Then came laundry day. Oh, I made sure to do that exactly right.
I dumped all of Dan’s clothes — whites, darks, colors — into one big load. When they came out, everything had turned pink. His once-crisp shirts were now a mix of baby pink and blotchy orange.
The next morning, he stormed into the room holding a pink shirt. “Lucia, what happened to my clothes?!”
I gasped dramatically. “Oh no! Maybe I folded them wrong. Should I try folding them in threes this time?”
Dan groaned, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t even argue anymore.
By the end of the week, Dan looked exhausted. And just when I thought the fun was over, Karen came over for a visit.
She looked around approvingly. “Lucia, I’m so proud of you! The house looks perfect. See how much easier life is when you follow the rules?”
I smiled sweetly. “Oh, Karen, you have no idea.”
But before I could say another word, Dan slammed his fork on the table.
“Mom, stop,” he said firmly. “We need to talk.”
Karen blinked. “About what?”
“These rules,” he snapped. “They’re insane! I can’t live like this, and Lucia shouldn’t have to. She’s my wife, not my servant!”
Karen frowned. “But I just wanted to make sure she’s taking care of you—”
“Mom,” he interrupted. “We’re building our marriage, not living yours. These rules are outdated, ridiculous, and honestly insulting.”
Karen sat there in stunned silence, clearly not used to being talked back to.
I quietly got up, walked to the counter, and handed her the ornate box she’d given me. Inside was a small note I’d written that morning. It said:
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
Karen looked at it for a long moment, her lips tightening. Then she got up and left without another word.
When the door closed, Dan turned to me, his face softening. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve said something sooner.”
I smiled. “Better late than never.”
He pulled me into a hug. And that was the moment I knew — the old rules were gone.
From that day on, our marriage was built on something real: respect, equality, and a whole lot of laughter.
And as for Karen’s “Good Wife” list? Let’s just say it found its way into the trash — right where it belonged.