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.