Marrying the love of my life felt like stepping into a dream I’d only ever imagined. Every detail, from the laughter we shared to the way he held my hand, seemed perfect. But that dream quickly took a dark turn when, not long after the wedding, I was handed a list—a set of rigid rules dictating exactly how to be a “good wife.” That’s when I decided I wasn’t going to accept it quietly. I would fight back, my way, with humor, wit, and a little creative rebellion.
I had grown up imagining marriage as lazy Sunday mornings wrapped in blankets, sipping coffee while sharing stories and secrets, built on mutual love and respect. I never pictured it as a checklist or a set of regulations. But reality, as it often does, hit hard and forced me to wake up to the world as it truly was.
Bram and I had just tied the knot. The wedding was everything I could have wished for—small, intimate, cozy, surrounded by friends and family who cared deeply for us. For a few blissful days, it felt like a fairy tale. Bram was endlessly charming and funny, and I truly believed we were aligned in our vision for our life together. That was until his mother, Greer, appeared with her “gift” shortly after the ceremony.
I was still glowing from the festivities, surrounded by the lingering scent of flowers and cake, when Greer approached me with a carefully wrapped box and a tight-lipped smile. “This is for you, Ryn,” she said sweetly, though her eyes held a calculating glint. “A little help for your new role.”
Inside was a folded piece of paper. I hesitated, then opened it. My jaw dropped. At the top, in bold, commanding letters, it read: “How to Be a Good Wife for My Son.”
At first, I laughed, thinking it was some kind of joke—a playful jab at old-fashioned marital norms. But as I scanned the list, my amusement faded into disbelief. This wasn’t advice or humor; it was a literal rulebook, and it was expected that I would obey it to the letter.
I looked over at Bram, hoping for shared shock or outrage, but he was engrossed in opening his own wedding gift—a large check. And me? I got a set of instructions on how to live my life according to his mother’s whims.
Later that evening, Bram approached me, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “You got Mom’s rules, huh?” he said casually, as if it were nothing important.
“Yep,” I replied, letting my sarcasm edge through.
He scratched the back of his neck nervously. “Well… you know, that’s just how things are now. Marriage isn’t like dating.”
I blinked at him, waiting for laughter, for some acknowledgment that this was absurd. But he was entirely serious.
“You’re serious?” I asked, barely recognizing the man I thought I knew.
He shrugged. “Mom says it keeps things in order.”
Keep things in order? That’s how they saw me now? A cog in a system, not a partner in a marriage? I clenched my teeth to hold back a sharp retort, deciding to wait and see how this would unfold.
After Bram fell asleep, I revisited the list, my hands trembling with a mix of shock, anger, and disbelief. The rules were absurd, overbearing, and impossible:
Wake at 6 a.m., fully dressed, hair done, makeup applied, and cook Bram’s breakfast perfectly. Eggs and toast only, golden brown, served on the blue plate—because green “ruins his appetite.”
Complete all grocery shopping alone. Men aren’t supposed to shop, apparently. Buy Bram’s favorite beer, but not too much—just enough to fuel football nights without letting him “get lazy.” Carry every bag yourself; asking for help isn’t ladylike.
Clean the kitchen impeccably after dinner, before Bram leaves the table. No crumbs. Stack plates by size, wipe the counters twice. Anything less is unacceptable.
Dress modestly for visitors. Skirts below the knee, tops high-collared. Modern styles or anything revealing would embarrass Bram.
Manage all laundry—fresh, ironed, with socks folded in threes, never twos. Mismatched socks or wrinkled shirts? Unthinkable.
By the end of my reading, I was seething. This wasn’t guidance—it was control. And Bram? He didn’t bat an eye. He treated the list as normal. My frustration and disbelief bubbled over, but I decided I wasn’t going to submit quietly. If they wanted to play a game, I would play too—but on my terms.
The following morning, I woke at 6 a.m., per the rules. I put on makeup, dressed up in a flattering but ordinary dress, and walked into the kitchen with a sly smile. Breakfast? I served one tiny slice of plain toast and an unseasoned boiled egg, planted on Bram’s massive blue plate. It looked ridiculous, and I reveled in it.
Bram wandered in, rubbing his eyes. “Is this it?” he asked, confused.
“Just following the rules,” I said sweetly. “Want another slice?”
He shrugged, unsure what to do. “No, it’s fine,” he mumbled, chewing the blandest meal ever. I tried not to giggle. This was just the beginning.
That afternoon, I made a dramatic display of grocery shopping alone. I trudged out with every bag in hand, making sure Bram saw me, and returned to unload them myself. When he asked about his beer, I presented sparkling water and green juice with a bright smile. “Just keeping you healthy,” I said. His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in, but he stayed silent.
Dinner was followed by “cleaning” the kitchen my way. Plates went into unusual cupboards, utensils in odd drawers, the toaster mysteriously relocated. Bram’s confusion was priceless.
When his friends came over for football night, I leaned into the modesty rules. Long skirt, high-collared blouse, cardigan like I’d stepped out of another century. I carried a tray of snacks, fully committed. His friends gave each other awkward glances while Bram whispered, “You don’t have to dress like that.”
“Oh, but your mom said it’s proper,” I said, fluttering my eyelashes. “We wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’m a bad wife, would we?”
Bram’s face turned to sheer bewilderment—he was realizing he’d married someone who could turn his mother’s rules against her.
Laundry day arrived. I washed everything together—whites, colors, and darks. Shirts turned pink, socks mismatched. Bram opened his drawer the next morning in horror. “What happened?” he asked.
“Oh no!” I said, feigning panic. “I’ll fold the socks in threes next time. Promise!”
By the end of the week, Bram was done. He confronted Greer when she arrived, laying down the law. “These rules are ridiculous. We’re not living this way. Ryn isn’t my maid, and I’m not a child. We’ll make our own rules, our own marriage.”
Greer left, stunned and defeated, while I handed her the fancy box back with a note inside: “Thanks, but no thanks.”
I turned to Bram. He wrapped me in his arms, whispering, “Sorry I didn’t stand up sooner.”
“Better late than never,” I said, relief flooding my chest.
And from that day forward, we built a marriage free from lists, rules, and outdated expectations—our way, together.