My MIL Gifted Me a Set of Rules Titled ‘How to Be a Good Wife for My Son’ for Our Wedding, While My Husband Got a Check

You believe you’re entering a fantasy when you say “I do” to the person you adore most. But that illusion shatters the moment you’re presented with a set of regulations on how to be the “ideal wife.” And that’s when my retribution commenced.

As a child, I always envisioned marriage as something completely different. I dreamed of lazy Sunday mornings in bed, sharing laughter and whispered confessions, a relationship founded on love and equality. But reality has a peculiar way of delivering a harsh wake-up call.

Dan and I had just exchanged vows. The ceremony was everything I had ever wished for—intimate, heartfelt, and perfect in every way. For a brief period, it truly felt like a fairytale. Dan was charming, humorous, and I genuinely believed we shared the same vision for our future together. That is, until his mother, Karen, presented me with a post-wedding “gift.”

I recall standing in our living room, still basking in the afterglow of the celebration, when Karen approached me with an eager expression.

“This is for you, Lucia. A little something to guide you in your new role,” she said, handing me an intricately designed box, her wide grin failing to reach her eyes.

Inside, a meticulously folded sheet of paper lay waiting. As I unfolded it, my heart skipped a beat. The title, written boldly across the top, read: “Guidelines for Being a Proper Wife to My Son.”

At first, I chuckled. I assumed it was a lighthearted joke, perhaps Karen’s way of mocking antiquated marital expectations.

However, as my eyes moved down the page, my amusement quickly faded. It was not a joke—it was a literal list of directives I was expected to adhere to as Dan’s spouse.

I shot a glance at Dan, hoping to see the same bewilderment reflected on his face. Instead, he was preoccupied with unwrapping his own present—a generous check. Meanwhile, I was left with a rulebook.

That evening, Dan approached me with a hesitant smile. “So… you got the list from my mom, right?” he asked, as though it were merely a friendly suggestion and not a prescription for servitude.

“Oh, I sure did,” I responded, failing miserably at suppressing my sarcasm.

Dan rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, you know, things are different now. Marriage isn’t the same as dating.”

I blinked at him, waiting for the punchline, the reassurance that he was jesting. But no such words came.

“Wait… You’re being serious?” I asked, staring at the man I had just committed my life to, suddenly feeling as though I hardly knew him.

He simply shrugged. “It’s just the way things should be. Mom says it’s important to maintain order.”

Maintain order. That’s what they expected of me?

That night, as Dan slept soundly, I reread the list, my fingers trembling with anger. The sheer audacity was unbelievable.

Here’s just a glimpse of the madness I was supposed to abide by:

Rise at 6 a.m., fully dressed and made-up, to prepare a warm breakfast for Dan. No vegetables, no milk, no butter—only plain eggs and toast. The toast must be golden brown, served on a blue plate, because the green one apparently ruins his appetite.

Do all the grocery shopping alone. Dan despises stores, and, frankly, they’re not meant for men. Always purchase his favorite beer—but in moderation. Just enough for football nights, but not enough to make him lazy. And under no circumstances should you ask for help carrying the bags—it’s unbecoming of a lady.

After dinner, ensure the kitchen is spotless before Dan leaves the table. A man should never witness disorder. Stack the plates by size, wipe the counters twice—crumbs are intolerable.

Dress modestly when Dan’s friends visit. No hemlines above the knee, no revealing necklines. The wrong outfit might damage Dan’s reputation.

Handle all of Dan’s laundry. A respectable wife keeps freshly ironed clothes ready. Fold socks in threes, not twos—Dan’s preference. Mismatched or wrinkled attire is a reflection of your failure.

By the time I finished reading, I was seething. This wasn’t just outdated advice; it was a mandate for submission. And the worst part? Dan was unbothered.

I felt cornered, but I refused to submit. If they wanted me to follow their game, I would—on my own terms.

At 6 a.m. sharp, I rose from bed, painted my face with makeup, and donned a dress. Staring at my reflection, I smirked. If they wanted a “proper” wife, I’d be one—with a twist.

I prepared breakfast precisely to specification—one meager slice of toast and an unseasoned boiled egg, served on an absurdly large blue plate. Dan’s confusion was palpable as he stared at the underwhelming meal.

“Is there… more?” he asked.

I beamed at him. “Just sticking to the rules. Would you like another slice?”

He sighed, resigned. “No… this is fine.”

I watched him choke down the driest meal of his life, struggling not to laugh. This was just the beginning.

Later, I announced my trip to the store. I made sure Dan saw me struggling with the heavy grocery bags upon my return—every single one lugged in alone. He fidgeted uncomfortably but said nothing.

“Where’s my beer?” he eventually asked, rifling through the bags.

“Oh, I didn’t forget,” I chirped. “I just didn’t want you getting lazy. Look, I got you some sparkling water!”

I pulled out a six-pack of fizzy water, a bottle of green juice, and a package of quinoa. Dan’s face twisted in disappointment, but he kept quiet. He was starting to sense something was amiss.

After dinner, I meticulously cleaned the kitchen—but with some modifications. I rearranged everything. The plates relocated to the bathroom cabinet, utensils landed in the laundry room, and the toaster? It found a new home in the hall closet.

Dan stepped in, frowning. “Where’s everything?”

I feigned distress. “I’m just doing my best! Maybe I need to wipe the counters three times?”

His confusion was delicious.

When his friends came over for football night, I embraced the modesty rule to the extreme. I greeted them in a high-necked blouse, a floor-length skirt, and a buttoned cardigan that screamed Victorian schoolteacher.

Dan pulled me aside. “You don’t have to dress like that.”

I widened my eyes innocently. “But your mom said modesty is key. Wouldn’t want to send the wrong message.”

His friends awkwardly glanced at one another, but I simply smiled.

Laundry day arrived, and I dutifully followed the rules—with a twist. Every color, fabric, and texture got thrown into one load. Dan’s crisp whites emerged in a delightful shade of pink, and his socks shrank to laughable proportions.

The next morning, he gawked at his wardrobe disaster. “What happened?”

I bit my lip. “Oh no! Maybe I need to fold them in threes better?”

By the end of the week, Dan had reached his limit. As Karen beamed with approval, he finally snapped.

“Mom, these rules are ridiculous! Lucia isn’t my servant. We’ll live by our own standards.”

Karen gasped, but Dan stood firm. I handed her the ornate box, now containing a simple note: “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Defeated, she left.

Dan turned to me, remorseful. “I should’ve spoken up sooner.”

I leaned into him, finally relieved. “Better late than never.”

And so, we forged our own marriage—free from absurd expectations, outdated ideals, and pointless lists.