He Gave Me a “House Uniform.” I Gave Him a Wake-Up Call He’ll Never Forget.
It had only been one week since I moved in with my new husband, Derek. I was still floating on that newlywed high—our wedding had been beautiful, the honeymoon dreamy, and now we were back, settling into our very first home together.
I was in the kitchen, unpacking a fancy crystal serving bowl his aunt had given us as a wedding gift, when I heard Derek’s key turn in the lock. His footsteps echoed down the hallway.
“Honey? I’m home!” he called out in a sing-song voice, the kind he used when he was excited.
“In the kitchen!” I answered, not thinking anything unusual was coming.
Then he walked in—jacket slung over his shoulder, grinning like he had just won the lottery. In his other hand, he held a box with a shiny ribbon tied on top.
“Surprise!” he said, wiggling his eyebrows as he handed me the box.
I felt my heart flutter. “We said no more gifts after the wedding,” I reminded him with a smile, already curious.
“Open it and see,” he urged, leaning on the counter and watching me like a kid waiting for someone to unwrap his best prank.
I opened the box, expecting maybe a necklace or something sweet.
Instead, I pulled out… a frilly floral apron.
And underneath it? A long, old-fashioned, ankle-length black dress that looked like it had come straight from the 1950s.
I blinked, confused. “What is this?”
Derek beamed. “It’s your house uniform!”
I stared at him, trying to process.
“My what?”
“My mom wore one every day,” he explained proudly. “It’s tradition. Helps keep the home organized and the homemaker in the right mindset.”
He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he had just gifted me fuzzy socks and hot cocoa, not a full-blown Stepford Wife starter pack.
“You’re serious?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.
He winked. “Totally. No pressure—it’s just tradition.”
I laughed awkwardly and nodded. “Well… it’s definitely a surprise.”
He looked so happy, like he expected me to swoon over it. “I thought it would be fun,” he said. “I can’t wait to see you in it!”
After he left the kitchen, I just stood there staring at the box. I couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t what I signed up for. Sure, I’d agreed to stay home after we got married—Derek said his job could support us both, and he painted this picture of a happy home with two or three kids. I was open to trying it. I even thought it might be relaxing, a new chapter.
But this? This was next-level.
That night, I laid the ridiculous “uniform” on the bed. And then… an idea hit me.
If Derek wanted a traditional wife, I was going to give him one. The most traditional wife he could imagine.
I dug out my dusty old sewing kit from college and got to work on my secret weapon.
The next morning, I dressed in the black dress and frilly apron before sunrise. I put on pearl earrings, did my hair in a bun, and even vacuumed while humming and wearing heels.
On the third morning, as I flipped pancakes at 6 a.m., Derek walked into the kitchen.
“See? Doesn’t it just make everything feel more pleasant?” he said, smiling.
“Oh, absolutely,” I answered sweetly, flipping a pancake with perfect grace.
By day five, I wasn’t just playing house—I became the role. I even finished sewing a special touch: a name tag embroidered in bold letters across the apron that read:
“DEREK’S FULL-TIME HOUSEWIFE.”
That morning, I greeted him with it on.
“Good morning, sir,” I said as he came downstairs. “Would you like your coffee now, or should I wait until after you inspect the house?”
He chuckled nervously. “You don’t have to call me sir, honey. The outfit’s enough.”
I tilted my head sweetly. “Oh, but sir, I just want to fulfill my duties with full respect.”
Later that evening, I tapped gently on his office door.
“Permission to use the bathroom during my shift, sir?”
He looked startled. “Okay, you don’t have to be sarcastic.”
“Sarcastic?” I gasped. “Why, sir, I thought this was about tradition.”
By now, Derek was clearly uncomfortable. But I wasn’t done yet.
That weekend, he invited his boss and a couple of coworkers over for dinner. I saw my chance.
I opened the door in full uniform—dress, apron, pearls, and white gloves. I curtsied so low I almost hit the floor.
“Welcome to our home,” I said cheerfully. “The master will be down shortly.”
His boss, Richard, blinked at me. “Uh… are you Derek’s wife?”
I pointed to the name tag. “Yes, sir. That’s me.”
“What did you do before you got married?” another coworker, Anita, asked slowly.
“Oh, I gave up my dreams the day I became a wife,” I replied with a bright smile. “Derek prefers it that way.”
The room went silent.
When Derek finally came down, his face turned bright red.
“Honey, didn’t we talk about this… joke going a little too far?” he whispered.
“But I’m not joking, sir,” I said sweetly. “I’m honoring your traditions.”
Dinner was painfully awkward. Derek barely touched his food. I stayed quiet unless someone asked me something, then answered like I was auditioning for a 1950s commercial.
When the guests left, Derek snapped.
“What the hell was that?” he shouted. “You made me look like a sexist jerk!”
I raised my eyebrows. “Me? I’m just being the wife you wanted.”
“That’s not what I meant by tradition!”
“Oh? Then what did you mean?” I asked. “Because buying me a ‘uniform’ makes it pretty clear.”
He stammered, “My mom always—”
“Your mom chose that life,” I said. “You chose it for me.”
Derek ran his hands through his hair. “Okay! I get it! The uniform was a bad idea.”
“It wasn’t just the uniform,” I said. “It was the message behind it. I’m your partner, not your maid.”
I hung the apron on a hook in the kitchen and said clearly, “I’m never wearing that thing again. And you need to decide if you married me for love—or just to replace your mother.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I turned and walked out of the room.
The next morning, he kissed me goodbye like nothing happened.
But when he came home that night, he looked pale.
“I got called into HR,” he said, dropping his keys. “They asked if my ‘traditional values’ affected how I treated women at work. There’s some diversity audit now. I’m being watched.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Wow. That’s awful,” I said, not even trying to sound sorry.
He looked at the apron on the hook, then back at me.
“You win,” he said quietly. “I thought that lifestyle was nice, but I see now it’s not what I want—not like that.”
I shut my laptop and smiled. “Good. Because I’ve started applying for remote jobs again.”
He looked surprised, but didn’t argue. He just nodded.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d love it, like my mom did.”
“You thought I’d be happy living someone else’s life,” I said gently. “But I’m not her.”
That night, I stuffed the apron and dress in the back of the closet.
Maybe one day we’d laugh about it. Or maybe we’d light a bonfire and burn it.
Either way, I smiled as I closed the closet door.
Victory had a sweet smell—stronger than lemon polish—and I wore it better than any frilly apron he could ever buy me.
