One week into marriage, I was still basking in the afterglow—wedding, honeymoon, and settling into our new home.
Then Derek came home with a smug grin and a box wrapped in ribbon.
“Surprise!” he beamed.
Inside? A frilly floral apron and a dated black dress.
“It’s your house uniform,” he said proudly. “Like my mom used to wear. Keeps things orderly.”
I stared at him, stunned. Was he serious?
He was. I’d agreed to try homemaking after leaving my analyst job, but this was something else. He had visions of a “trad wife,” complete with apron and submissive smiles.
So, I gave him exactly what he wanted—with a twist.
For a week, I played the 1950s dream wife: pearls, pancakes at dawn, deep cleaning in full costume. I embroidered a tag on the apron: “DEREK’S FULL-TIME HOUSEWIFE.” I called him “sir” and asked for bathroom breaks “during my shift.”
At first, he laughed. Then he squirmed.
When his boss and coworkers came for dinner, I greeted them with a curtsy and the full act.
“I gave up my dreams when I said ‘I do,’” I said sweetly. “Derek likes it this way.”
The room froze. Derek flushed red.
Afterward, he exploded.
“You’re making me look bad!” he shouted.
“You are bad,” I said calmly. “You wanted a wife. Not a servant.”
On Monday, he came home pale.
“HR called me in,” he said. “They’re auditing how I treat women at work.”
I smiled. “I’m applying for remote jobs again.”
He sighed. “You win.”
“No, we win,” I replied. “I get my life back. And maybe you learn the difference between love and control.”
That night, I shoved the uniform to the back of the closet.
Maybe one day we’d laugh about it.
Or burn it.
Either way, I’d never wear it again.
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