Growing up, I envisioned marriage as a partnership filled with love and laughter. But after marrying Dan, reality hit hard.

Our wedding was perfect—small and intimate. For a while, it felt like a fairy tale until Karen, his mother, approached me after the ceremony with a gift.

“This is for you, Lucia. A little something to help you as you step into your new role,” she said, handing me an ornate box.

Inside was a neatly folded paper titled, “How to Be a Good Wife for My Son.” I initially thought it was a joke, but my laughter faded as I read the actual list of rules I was expected to follow.

I glanced at Dan, who was busy unwrapping his gift—a substantial check. I received a rulebook instead.

Later that evening, Dan sheepishly asked, “You got the rules my mom gave you, didn’t you?” He seemed nonchalant about it, as if it were normal.

I was stunned. “Wait… you’re serious?”

“It’s just how it is now. Marriage is different from dating,” he replied.

A bride reading a letter | Source: Amomama

My anger bubbled as I reread the list, which demanded I cater to Dan’s every whim, including:

– Waking up at 6 a.m., fully dressed and made up, cooking a hot breakfast of plain eggs and toast served on a specific blue plate.
– Doing all the grocery shopping and only buying his favorite beer—just enough for football nights.
– Ensuring the kitchen was spotless before Dan left the dining room, stacking plates by size and wiping the counters twice.

Each rule felt more outrageous than the last. I refused to accept this as my new reality.

The next morning, I decided to play along but on my terms. I woke up at 6 a.m., got dressed, and made the driest breakfast imaginable—just a tiny slice of toast and a boiled egg, served on a giant blue plate.

Dan looked puzzled but accepted it. I laughed internally; this was going to be entertaining.

I continued to follow the rules, exaggerating them for effect. At the grocery store, I returned with sparkling water instead of beer, claiming I didn’t want him to get lazy. He watched, bewildered.

Later, I rearranged the kitchen, placing items in odd spots. When Dan noticed, I feigned concern, suggesting I needed to wipe the counters three times instead of two.

When his friends came over, I dressed in the most conservative outfit possible, causing confusion and awkwardness among them. Dan whispered to me, “You don’t have to dress like that,” but I played innocent, reminding him of his mother’s expectations.

Laundry day brought more chaos. I mixed all Dan’s clothes, resulting in pink shirts and mismatched socks. He was frustrated but I merely apologized, pretending I’d misinterpreted the folding rules.

By the end of the week, Dan had reached his breaking point. As we sat down for breakfast, Karen visited, beaming at my compliance.

“Lucia, I’m so glad to see you following the rules!” she said.

Dan exploded. “Mom, we need to talk. These rules are insane. Lucia’s miserable, and this is not how we’ll live our lives.”

Karen was shocked. “But I just want to make sure you’re taken care of!”

“No, Mom. Lucia isn’t my servant, and we’ll create our own rules.” He asserted his love for me and our right to define our marriage.

After Karen left, I felt relief wash over me. I handed back the ornate box, with a note saying, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Dan wrapped his arms around me, apologizing for not speaking up sooner. I smiled, knowing we could build our marriage free of outdated expectations.