My Mother-in-Law Gave Me a ‘Perfect Wife’ Guide After My Wedding – I Played Along… WITH A TWIST

Marrying the love of my life felt like a dream come true. But that dream turned sour when I was handed a list of rules on how to be a “good wife.” That’s when I decided to fight back—my way.

Growing up, I pictured marriage as lazy Sunday mornings in bed, sharing laughs and secrets, built on love and respect. But reality has a way of shaking you awake.

Bram and I had just gotten married. The wedding was perfect—small, cozy, everything I’d hoped for. For a while, it felt like a fairy tale. Bram was sweet and funny, and I thought we were on the same page about our life together. That is, until his mother, Greer, gave me her “special” gift after the ceremony.

I was in our living room, still glowing from the wedding, when Greer approached with a fancy box and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “This is for you, Ryn,” she said. “A little help for your new role.”

Inside was a folded paper. I opened it, and my jaw dropped. At the top, in bold letters: “How to Be a Good Wife for My Son.”

I laughed at first, thinking it was a joke, maybe a playful jab at old-school marriage ideas. But as I read on, my smile faded. It was a real list of rules I was expected to follow.

I glanced at Bram, hoping he’d be as shocked as me, but he was busy opening his own gift—a big check. And me? I got a rulebook.

Later that evening, Bram came to me with a shy grin. “You got Mom’s rules, huh?” he said, like it was no big deal.

“Yep,” I replied, sarcasm slipping out.

He shifted, scratching his neck. “Well, you know, that’s just how it is now. Marriage isn’t like dating.”

I stared, waiting for him to laugh it off. He didn’t.

“You’re serious?” I asked, barely recognizing the man I’d married.

He shrugged. “Mom says it keeps things in order.”

I bit my tongue to hold back a sharp reply. Keep things in order? That’s how they saw me now?

After Bram fell asleep, I read the list again, hands shaking with shock and anger. It was ridiculous.

Here’s a taste of the nonsense:

At 6 a.m., be dressed, made-up, and cooking Bram’s breakfast. No veggies, milk, or butter—just plain eggs and toast, golden brown, on a blue plate. The green one ruins his appetite.

Do all grocery shopping alone. Bram hates stores, and they’re no place for a man. Buy his favorite beer, but not too much—just enough for football nights so he doesn’t get lazy. Carry all bags yourself; asking for help isn’t ladylike.

After dinner, clean the kitchen spotless before Bram leaves the table. Men shouldn’t see mess. Stack plates by size, wipe counters twice—Bram’s picky about crumbs.

Dress modestly when Bram’s friends visit. Nothing above the knee or low-cut, or you’ll look “modern” and embarrass him.

Handle Bram’s laundry. Fresh, ironed clothes, socks folded in threes—not twos—because that’s how he likes it. Mismatched socks or wrinkled shirts make you look bad.

By the end, I was fuming. This wasn’t advice—it was a demand to live for Bram’s every whim, like I had no other purpose. Worst of all, Bram was okay with it. He didn’t even blink when I brought it up.

I felt trapped, but I wasn’t going to give in. If they wanted to play this game, I’d play—on my terms.

The next morning, I woke at 6 a.m., as the rules said. I put on makeup and a nice dress, chuckling quietly at how absurd this was. If Greer wanted me to follow her rules, I’d do it with a twist.

I made breakfast: one tiny slice of plain toast and an unseasoned boiled egg, plopped on Bram’s huge blue plate. It looked laughable.

I set it on the table, smiling sweetly as Bram walked in, rubbing his eyes. He stared at the plate, confused. “Is this it?”

I shook my head, all innocence. “Just following the rules. Want another slice?”

He sighed, picking up the toast. “No, it’s fine.”

I watched him chew the blandest meal ever, barely hiding my grin. This was going to be fun.

That afternoon, I made a big show of going grocery shopping. I grabbed my bags and marched out, making sure Bram saw me leave alone, per the rules. When I returned, I lugged every heavy bag in by myself. Bram watched from the couch, looking uneasy but staying quiet.

As I unpacked, he frowned. “Where’s the beer?”

“Didn’t forget it,” I said brightly. “Just didn’t want you getting lazy. Sparkling water’s healthier!”

I pulled out sparkling water, green juice, and quinoa—stuff I knew he’d hate. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. He was starting to sense something was off, but I was just getting started.

After dinner, I “cleaned” the kitchen. Instead of putting things back, I mixed it all up—plates in the bathroom cupboard, utensils in the laundry room, toaster in the hall closet.

Bram walked in, puzzled. “Why’s everything everywhere?”

I frowned, fake-worried. “I’m trying so hard! Maybe I need to wipe the counters three times?”

He blinked, lost, but let it go. I was just warming up.

When Bram’s friends came for football night, I leaned into the modesty rule. I wore a long skirt, high-collared blouse, and a cardigan fit for a nun. I looked like I’d stepped out of the 1800s.

I carried a tray of snacks into the living room. His friends glanced at me, confused but too polite to comment. Bram pulled me aside, whispering, “You don’t have to dress like that.”

I batted my eyes. “But your mom said I need to be modest. We don’t want them thinking I’m not the right kind of wife, do we?”

His friends swapped awkward looks. Bram’s face was priceless—he knew I was flipping the script, and he had to play along.

For laundry day, I washed all his clothes in one load—whites, darks, colors. His crisp shirts turned pink, and his socks were tiny or mismatched. The next morning, he opened his drawer, pulling out one pink shirt after another. “What happened to my clothes?”

“Oh no!” I said, faking worry. “I must’ve messed up. I’ll fold the socks in threes next time, like the rules say.”

He groaned, shoving on mismatched socks before heading to work, defeated. I couldn’t help but smile.

By the end of the week, Bram was done. He was eating another boring breakfast when Greer showed up, smiling like everything was perfect. She sat at the table, looking pleased.

“Ryn, I’m so glad you’re following the rules! Isn’t life better this way?”

I laughed softly. “Oh, Greer, you have no idea.”

Bram slammed his fork down, startling us. “Mom, we need to talk.”

Greer blinked. “About what?”

“These rules are ridiculous,” he said, voice rising. “I’m miserable, Ryn’s miserable, and this isn’t how we’re living our lives.”

Greer looked shocked. “But, Bram, I just want you taken care of! This is how marriage works.”

“No, it’s not,” Bram said firmly. “Ryn isn’t my maid, and I’m not a kid who needs everything done for him. These rules are outdated and crazy. We’re building our own family, our way—not with your rules.”

Greer froze, speechless. She hadn’t expected him to push back.

I smiled, feeling lighter. I grabbed the fancy box from the counter and handed it back to Greer, with a note inside: “Thanks, but no thanks.”

Greer left quietly, her influence over our marriage gone.

I turned to Bram. He wrapped an arm around me, smiling. “Sorry I didn’t speak up sooner.”

I leaned into him, heart lighter. “Better late than never.”

And with that, we started building our marriage—free of lists, rules, and old-fashioned expectations.

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