When you marry the love of your life, you think you’re stepping into a dream. But that dream can quickly turn into a nightmare — especially when your new mother-in-law hands you a list of rules on how to be a “good wife.” That was the moment my revenge began.
When I was little, I used to imagine what marriage would be like. I pictured waking up late on Sundays, laughing in bed, cooking pancakes together, and feeling safe and loved. I dreamed of being equals — two people walking through life hand in hand.
Reality, however, had very different plans for me.
Dan and I had just gotten married. The wedding was small and beautiful — candles, laughter, dancing, everything I’d hoped for. Dan was sweet, funny, and made me feel special. I really believed we were starting something perfect.
That illusion lasted exactly two days.
We were at home, still in that honeymoon glow, when his mother, Karen, dropped by. She wore her usual bright smile — the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. In her hands was a shiny ornate box tied with gold ribbon.
“This is for you, Lucia,” she said, handing it to me. “A little something to help you as you step into your new role.”
Her tone was sweet, but something about the word “role” made my stomach twist.
I opened the box, expecting maybe a piece of jewelry or a keepsake. Instead, there was just a folded sheet of paper.
At the top, in big bold letters, it read: “How to Be a Good Wife for My Son.”
I laughed out loud. “Oh, this is a joke, right?”
Karen’s smile didn’t move. “Oh no, dear. I spent years perfecting that list.”
Dan was on the couch, opening his own gift — a thick white envelope filled with a generous check. Meanwhile, I stood there holding a list of instructions for how to be his wife.
I could feel my face burning.
Later that night, Dan came over, rubbing the back of his neck. “So… Mom gave you her list, huh?”
“You mean that essay about how to worship you? Yeah, I saw it,” I said flatly.
He chuckled awkwardly. “Come on, it’s just her way. You know how she is. Marriage is… different now. Responsibilities and all.”
I blinked at him, waiting for the punchline. But there wasn’t one.
“Wait. You’re serious?”
He shrugged. “She’s just trying to help you keep things in order.”
Keep things in order. Those words echoed in my head like a slap. I smiled tightly, biting back the things I wanted to say. Fine, I thought. If that’s how they want to play it, I’ll play too — but on my terms.
That night, when Dan was asleep, I unfolded the list again. I read each line slowly, shaking my head in disbelief.
Rule #1: Be fully dressed by 6 a.m. with your makeup done. Cook a hot breakfast — plain eggs and toast only. No milk, no butter, no veggies. Serve it on a blue plate because the green one “ruins his appetite.”
Rule #2: Do all the grocery shopping yourself. Don’t ask for help — it’s unladylike. Always buy his favorite beer but not too much, or he’ll “get lazy.”
Rule #3: After dinner, clean the kitchen before Dan leaves the table. A man should never see a mess. Wipe counters twice because “crumbs upset him.”
Rule #4: Dress conservatively when his friends come over. “A good wife doesn’t show too much skin.”
Rule #5: Never let Dan do his laundry. Fold his clothes in threes, not twos. Wrinkled shirts “reflect poorly on you.”
By the end of the list, my hands were trembling with anger. This wasn’t advice — this was control disguised as tradition.
But instead of arguing, I decided to have a little fun.
The next morning, I got up at 6 a.m. sharp. I did my makeup like a 1950s housewife, put on a frilly dress, and went to the kitchen.
I made breakfast exactly by the rules — one plain boiled egg, one tiny piece of dry toast, neatly centered on a giant blue plate. The plate was so big it made the food look ridiculous.
When Dan walked in, he rubbed his eyes and stared. “Uh… isn’t there more?”
I beamed. “Just following the rules! Plain eggs and toast, remember?”
He sat down, chewing through the driest meal of his life. I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing.
That afternoon, I announced cheerfully, “Going to the grocery store!”
I made sure he saw me leave with a pile of bags. I bought everything except what he liked — no beer, no chips. Instead, I came home with quinoa, green juice, and sparkling water.
Dan frowned as I unpacked. “Where’s the beer?”
“Oh,” I said brightly, “the rules said not too much, right? So… none at all is safest!”
His jaw dropped, but he stayed quiet. I could see him starting to realize something was off.
That night, after dinner, I “cleaned” the kitchen as instructed — by completely rearranging it. Plates went in the bathroom cabinet, the silverware ended up in the laundry room, and I stashed the toaster in the hall closet.
When Dan walked in later, he looked around in confusion. “Why is everything all over the place?”
I sighed dramatically. “Maybe I didn’t wipe the counters enough times! Was it two or three?”
He blinked at me, totally lost. Oh, this was too much fun.
A few days later, it was football night with his friends. That morning, I pulled out the most modest outfit I owned — a floor-length skirt, a high-necked blouse, and a cardigan buttoned up to my chin. I looked like I was auditioning for a role in Little House on the Prairie.
When Dan’s friends arrived, I walked in carrying a tray of snacks. Their eyes went wide.
“Evening, gentlemen,” I said sweetly.
Dan nearly choked on his drink. He pulled me aside, whispering, “Lucia, what are you wearing? You don’t have to dress like that.”
I gave him a wide-eyed look. “But your mom said to dress modestly! I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
His friends tried not to laugh. Dan looked mortified. Revenge had never felt so satisfying.
Then came laundry day. I followed the rules again — sort of. I washed everything together: whites, colors, darks, all in one go. When I pulled the clothes out, everything had turned a lovely shade of pink.
The next morning, Dan stood in front of his closet, holding up two mismatched socks and a pink button-down. “What happened to my clothes?”
I gasped. “Oh no! Maybe I folded them wrong. I’ll do them in threes next time!”
He groaned, pulling on the ruined shirt and heading to work in defeat.
By the end of the week, he was ready to explode.
Karen dropped by that morning, her usual fake smile in place. She looked around the spotless kitchen and nodded approvingly.
“I’m so glad to see you following the rules, Lucia! Isn’t life easier now?”
I smiled sweetly. “Oh, Karen, it’s been life-changing.”
Dan slammed his fork down. “Mom, we need to talk.”
Karen blinked, confused. “About what, dear?”
“These rules,” he snapped. “They’re ridiculous! Lucia’s miserable, and so am I.”
Karen frowned. “I just want to make sure you’re being taken care of. That’s what a good marriage is.”
“No, Mom,” he said firmly. “That’s what a controlling marriage is. Lucia isn’t my maid. She’s my wife. We’re not living by your outdated nonsense anymore.”
Karen’s lips parted, but no words came out.
Dan stood, his voice calm but strong. “We’re making our own rules. Together.”
I walked over to the counter and picked up the ornate box — the one she’d gifted me on our wedding day. I handed it back with a small note tucked inside that read: “Thanks, but no thanks.”
Karen stared at it for a moment, then slowly got up. Her smile was gone. Without another word, she left.
After the door closed, Dan turned to me with a guilty look. “I should’ve spoken up sooner.”
I smiled softly. “Better late than never.”
He wrapped his arms around me, and for the first time since our wedding, it felt like we were really starting fresh — no lists, no rules, just us.
That was the day I knew one thing for sure: sometimes, the best revenge isn’t shouting or fighting. It’s smiling sweetly while turning their ridiculous game upside down — and winning every round.