One week into our marriage, and I was still floating on the excitement of the ceremony, honeymoon, and now, unpacking in our new home.
I heard Derek’s key turn in the lock and his footsteps down the hall.
“Honey? I’m home!” he called, sounding excited.
“In the kitchen,” I replied, setting down a crystal serving bowl we’d received as a wedding gift.
Derek walked in, grinning, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, holding a box wrapped in a ribbon. “Surprise!” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.
My heart fluttered. We’d agreed no more gifts after the wedding, but the excitement on his face made me smile.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Open it and see,” he said, leaning against the counter.
Inside was a frilly floral apron and a dated ankle-length dress.
I blinked, confused. “It’s your house uniform,” Derek said proudly. “My mom wore one every day. It helps keep things more… orderly.”
I stared at him. Was he serious?
“It’s tradition,” he added. “It helps the homemaker mindset.”
I struggled to keep my expression neutral. “Right. Like your mom.”
He beamed. “Exactly! No pressure though.”
I forced a smile. “I’ll try it on later.”
That night, I laid the uniform across the bed, forming a plan. I dug out my old sewing kit and got to work.
By day three, I was fully in character—dressed in the full getup while making breakfast and scrubbing floors in pearls. “See? It’s just like my mom’s,” Derek said, beaming.
“Oh, absolutely,” I replied sweetly.
By day five, I had embroidered a tag on the apron that read, “DEREK’S FULL-TIME HOUSEWIFE.” I started calling him “sir,” even making jokes like, “Should I wait with your slippers at 6 p.m. sharp?”
He was starting to get uncomfortable. One evening, I greeted his coworkers at the door in full uniform, even curtsying. They were confused. Derek, embarrassed, rushed to explain it was a joke. But I wasn’t joking.
“I’m just fulfilling my role,” I said, smoothing the apron.
Later that night, Derek snapped. “What was that? You’re making me look like a sexist pig!”
“I’m just living the dream you planned for me, remember?” I replied.
The next day, he came home pale. “I got called into HR,” he said. “They’re questioning my ‘traditional values.’”
I pretended to be surprised. “Really? That’s terrible.”
He sighed. “You win. I didn’t see how harmful it was.”
“Then we both win,” I said. “I get to wear pants again, and you get to keep your job.”
That night, I stuffed the uniform into the back of the closet. Maybe we’d laugh about it someday. Or maybe burn it. Either way, I couldn’t help smirking as I walked away.
Victory never looked better than the freedom I was wearing.
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