Six months postpartum, drowning in baby laundry, and exhausted beyond words, I thought my husband would understand when our washing machine broke. But instead of helping, he shrugged and said, “Just wash everything by hand—people did it for centuries.”
I never thought I’d spend this much time doing laundry.
A tired woman in a chair | Source: Pexels
Six months ago, I gave birth to our first baby. Since then, my life had turned into a never-ending cycle of feeding, changing diapers, cleaning, cooking, and washing. So much washing. Babies go through more clothes in a day than an entire football team.
On a good day, I washed at least eight pounds of tiny onesies, burp cloths, blankets, and bibs. On a bad day? Let’s just say I stopped counting.
A woman doing laundry | Source: Pexels
So when the washing machine broke, I knew I was in trouble.
I had just pulled out a soaking pile of clothes when it sputtered, let out a sad grinding noise, and died. I pressed the buttons. Nothing. I unplugged it, plugged it back in. Nothing.
My heart sank.
When Billy got home from work, I wasted no time.
A tired puzzled woman | Source: Pexels
“The washing machine is dead,” I said as soon as he stepped through the door. “We need a new one.”
Billy barely looked up from his phone. “Huh?”
“I said the washing machine broke. We need to replace it. Soon.”
He nodded absently, kicked off his shoes, and scrolled through his screen. “Yeah. Not this month.”
A man on his phone in his living room | Source: Pexels
I blinked. “What?”
“Not this month,” he repeated. “Maybe next month when I get my salary. Three weeks.”
I felt my stomach twist. “Billy, I can’t go three weeks without a washing machine. The baby’s clothes need to be cleaned properly every day.”
A couple having a serious talk | Source: Pexels
Billy sighed like I was asking for something unreasonable. He put his phone down and stretched his arms over his head. “Look, I already promised to pay for my mom’s vacation this month. She really deserves it.”
I stared at him. “Your mom’s vacation?”
“Yeah. She’s been babysitting for us. I thought it’d be nice to do something for her.”
Babysitting?
A shocked woman | Source: Pexels
I swallowed hard. His mother came over once a month. She sat on the couch, watched TV, ate the dinner I cooked, and took a nap while the baby slept. That wasn’t babysitting. That was visiting.
Billy kept talking like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on me. “She said she needed a break, so I figured I’d cover her trip. It’s just for a few days.”
A man talking to his wife in his kitchen | Source: Pexels
I crossed my arms. “Billy, your mom doesn’t babysit. She comes over, eats, naps, and goes home.”
He frowned. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, really? When was the last time she changed a diaper?”
Billy opened his mouth, then shut it. “That’s not the point.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, I think it is.”
A couple arguing in their kitchen | Source: Pexels
He groaned, rubbing his face. “Look, can’t you just wash everything by hand for now? People used to do that for centuries. Nobody died from it.”
I stared at him, feeling my blood boil. Wash everything by hand. Like I wasn’t already drowning in work, exhausted, aching, and running on three hours of sleep a night.
An angry woman clutching her head | Source: Pexels
I took a slow, deep breath, my hands clenching into fists. I wanted to yell, to scream, to make him understand how unfair this was. But I knew Billy. Arguing wouldn’t change his mind.
I exhaled and looked at the pile of dirty clothes stacked by the door. Fine. If he wanted me to wash everything by hand, then that’s exactly what I’d do.
The first load wasn’t so bad.
A pile of clothes | Source: Pexels
I filled the bathtub with soapy water, dropped in the baby’s clothes, and started scrubbing. My arms ached, but I told myself it was temporary. Just a few weeks.
By the third load, my back was screaming. My fingers were raw. And I still had towels, bedsheets, and Billy’s work clothes waiting for me.
A tired woman sitting near a bathtub | Source: Midjourney
Every day was the same. Wake up, feed the baby, clean, cook, do laundry by hand, wring it out, hang it up. By the time I was done, my hands were swollen, my shoulders stiff, and my body exhausted.
Billy didn’t notice.
A bored man on a couch | Source: Pexels
He came home, kicked off his shoes, ate the dinner I cooked, and stretched out on the couch. I could barely hold a spoon, but he never once asked if I needed help. Never looked at my hands, red and cracked from hours of scrubbing.
One night, after I’d finished washing another pile of clothes, I collapsed onto the couch next to him. I winced as I rubbed my aching fingers.
Billy glanced at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
A tired woman on her couch | Source: Pexels
I stared at him. “What’s wrong with me?”
He shrugged. “You look tired.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Gee, I wonder why.”
He didn’t even flinch. Just turned back to the TV. That was the moment something snapped inside me.
An annoyed woman in her kitchen | Source: Pexels
Billy wasn’t going to understand—not unless he felt the inconvenience himself. If he wanted me to live like a 19th-century housewife, then fine. He could live like a caveman.
So I planned my revenge.
The next morning, I packed his lunch as usual. Except instead of the big, hearty meal he expected, I filled his lunchbox with stones. Right on top, I placed a folded note.
A lunchbox filled with rocks | Source: Midjourney
Then I kissed his cheek and sent him off to work.
And I waited.
At exactly 12:30 PM, Billy stormed through the front door, red-faced and furious.
“What the hell have you done?!” he shouted, slamming his lunchbox onto the counter.
I turned from the sink, wiping my hands on a towel. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
A laughing woman in her kitchen | Source: Midjourney
He flipped open the lid, revealing the pile of rocks. He grabbed the note and read it out loud.
“Men used to get food for their families themselves. Go hunt your meal, make fire with stones, and fry it.”
His face twisted in rage. “Are you out of your damn mind, Shirley? I had to open this in front of my coworkers!”
I crossed my arms. “Oh, so public humiliation is bad when it happens to you?”
A shouting man wearing glasses | Source: Pexels
Billy clenched his jaw. He looked like he wanted to yell, but for once, he didn’t have a comeback.
I crossed my arms and tilted my head. “Go on, Billy. Tell me how this is different.”
His jaw tightened. “Shirley, this is—this is just childish.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, I see. So your suffering is real, but mine is just me being childish?”
An angry woman lecturing her husband | Source: Pexels
He threw his hands in the air. “You could have just talked to me!”
I stepped forward, fire burning in my chest. “Talked to you? I did, Billy. I told you I couldn’t go three weeks without a washing machine. I told you I was exhausted. And you shrugged and told me to do it by hand. Like I was some woman from the 1800s!”
A woman turning away from her husband | Source: Pexels
His nostrils flared, but I could see the tiny flicker of guilt creeping in. He knew I was right.
I pointed at his lunchbox. “You thought I’d just take it, huh? That I’d wash and scrub and break my back while you sat on that couch every night without a care in the world?”
Billy looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.
A sad man clutching his head | Source: Pexels
I shook my head. “I’m not a servant, Billy. And I’m sure as hell not your mother.”
Silence. Then, finally, he muttered, “I get it.”
“Do you?” I asked.
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yeah. I do.”
A tired man rubbing his temples | Source: Pexels
I watched him for a long moment, letting his words settle. Then I turned back to the sink. “Good,” I said, rinsing off my hands. “Because I meant it, Billy. If you ever put your mother’s vacation over my basic needs again, you’d better learn how to start a fire with those rocks.”
Billy sulked for the rest of the evening.
An angry man in a hoodie | Source: Pexels
He barely touched his dinner. He didn’t turn on the TV. He sat on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it had personally betrayed him. Every now and then, he sighed loudly, like I was supposed to feel bad for him.
I didn’t.
For once, he was the one uncomfortable. He was the one who had to sit with the weight of his own choices. And I was perfectly fine letting him stew in it.
A woman reading a book on a couch | Source: Pexels
The next morning, something strange happened.
Billy’s alarm went off earlier than usual. Instead of hitting snooze five times, he actually got up. He got dressed quickly and left without a word.
I didn’t ask where he was going. I just waited.
That evening, when he came home, I heard it before I saw it—the unmistakable sound of a large box being dragged through the doorway.
A large box in the doorway | Source: Midjourney
I turned around and there it was. A brand-new washing machine.
Billy didn’t say anything. He just set it up, plugging in hoses, checking the settings. No complaints. No excuses. Just quiet determination.
When he finished, he finally looked up. His face was sheepish, his voice low.
“I get it now.”
A sorry man covering his face | Source: Pexels
I watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… should’ve listened to you sooner.”
“Yeah,” I said, crossing my arms. “You should have.”
He swallowed, nodded again, then grabbed his phone and walked away without argument or justification. Just acceptance. And honestly? That was enough.
A satisfied smiling woman | Source: Pexels
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
My Future MIL Gave Me 10 Rules for Being the Perfect DIL, So I Followed Them in a Way She’d Never Forget — Story of the Day
My future MIL gave me a list of 10 rules to become the “perfect” wife for her son. I smiled, nodded… and decided to follow every one of them. Just not the way she expected.
I’d always been an ordinary woman with ordinary needs. Nothing extravagant. I wanted to work, have a few hobbies, maybe travel a bit, and one day build a family.
I didn’t equate life with grand happiness — I simply lived it and appreciated what I had.
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Until I met Dylan.
My friends used to talk about him like he’d stepped straight out of a luxury shower gel commercial.
“He supports everyone, no matter what!”
“His suits are always spotless.”
“And he never forgets to open the door for a lady. Never!”
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I used to smile politely, not quite believing men like that existed outside romcoms. But the first time Dylan took my hand in his — I got it.
Dylan made my life feel cinematic. Almost too good to be true. I found myself blooming next to him, dreaming bigger, smiling more. I even started cooking with joy.
We moved in together pretty quickly, and strangely, domestic life didn’t ruin the magic. If anything, it strengthened it. The toothbrush next to mine and the grocery runs were small rituals that made me fall harder.
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Everything felt… easy. The perfection of it didn’t scare me. It reminded me how simple love could be when two people were honest.
That evening, we were having dinner at our favorite trattoria. But Dylan seemed… different. Fidgety.
“You okay?” I asked, smiling softly when we finally went outside.
He nodded and suddenly… he knelt. In the middle of the street. With a proposal ring in a tiny box.
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“I knew it from the moment you said pesto was overrated,” he began. “That’s when I realized… I want to wake up next to you, even on the days you’re mad at me for forgetting to bring home oat milk. You’re my heart. Will you be my wife?”
Something in my chest melted completely.
“Yes… Of course, yes.”
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He slipped the ring onto my finger. The tables around us erupted in applause. It was perfect.
Right up until the following day, when Dylan said,
“I think it’s time you meet my mom. You’re going to adore her…”
And that’s when I felt the tiniest tremor in our fairytale. The kind that makes you wonder… if the perfect story is about to take a turn.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
***
We didn’t wait long to plan the trip. Dylan was too excited to tell his mom the news. So the very next morning — it was Saturday — we packed an overnight bag and hit the road to his parents’ place in the countryside.
Dylan hummed along to some 80s playlist as he drove, while I tried to decide if I was overdressed.
“Just wait till you try her lemon tart. Mom’s a legend in the kitchen. And she’s so excited to meet you.”
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I laughed, nervously. “Sounds… charming?”
“She’s amazing. You’ll see.”
In half an hour, the front door flew open before we even knocked.
“Diiiiilan!” a sing-song voice echoed, and there she was. Elen.
The woman wore head-to-toe baby pink — a satin blouse with a bow the size of a toddler and matching trousers.
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“And you must be the darling girl!” she squealed, pulling me into a hug.
Elen smelled of roses and baby powder. I sneezed quietly into her shoulder. As soon as she inhaled the soft trail of my perfume, she gave a tiny cough.
“Oh my,” she said with a polite little wince. “Is that… jasmine?”
I nodded, already regretting it.
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“Lovely… if one can tolerate it. Tee-hee!”
Great… Two seconds into our first hug and we already have a mutual allergy to each other’s taste in perfume. Coincidence? Unlikely.
“Look at those cheeks! You are real!” Elen giggled, giving Dylan’s arm a little slap. “She’s prettier than your last girlfriend.”
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“Mom…” Dylan chuckled, clearly charmed.
We walked through the garden toward the house, and for a moment I let myself admire the rose bushes until my eyes landed on something… unexpected.
A small bronze statue, oddly placed between two ceramic bunnies. Elen noticed. Of course, she did.
“That’s my little Cupid,” she said proudly.
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The poor thing had a chipped wing, a dented face, and an overall expression.
“I found it in a darling little antique shop upstate,” she went on. “Of course, it arrived scratched. But he has character.”
Her voice wavered just enough to give her away — she adored the odd little creature.
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We walked in. The house was a shrine to florals. Floral curtains, floral sofa cushions, even a porcelain tissue box shaped like a bouquet.
Over tea (served in rose-patterned cups, naturally), Elen asked me questions so sweetly I almost didn’t notice the blades hiding behind them.
“So, do you actually work, or is it more of a hobby?”
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“Uh… well, I have a full-time job in marketing,” I said, trying to smile. “It’s…”
“She’s really talented,” Dylan cut in proudly.
Each time, she ended with a sharp little laugh, like a kitten pawing you after unsheathing its claws.
“Tee-hee!”
Dylan, bless him, looked enchanted.
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“Isn’t she just the cutest?” he whispered to me later. “She’s always been so warm.”
Warm. Like a scented candle right before it gives you a headache.
After dinner, Dylan stepped out to the garage with his father to check on some old stereo system. Elen and I were left alone. She stood. Smoothed her pink blouse.
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“Now that it’s just us girls. I think it’s time we had a little honest talk, don’t you?”
I froze, my spoon halfway to the crème brûlée.
“You’re going to marry my son. So it’s only fair that I tell you exactly what’s expected of you as a future perfect daughter-in-law.”
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She reached into a drawer. And pulled out a pink sheet of paper with little roses printed along the edges.
“These are just a few small expectations,” she said sweetly. “I find it helps if we’re all on the same page.”
She placed it in front of me. Across the top, in pink script, I read:
“10 Rules for the Ideal Future Daughter-in-Law.”
At that moment I realized — I might be holding the contract to my horror movie.
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***
It was Sunday afternoon. My friends and I were curled up on the couch in my apartment with two open pizza boxes and three untouched oat milk lattes that had gone cold ages ago.
I didn’t need caffeine. I had rage.
“Start from the beginning,” Emma said. “I want to picture the whole pastel nightmare.”
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I took a breath and stared into the middle distance, letting the horror replay.
“Okay. So we get there, and she’s dressed like a life-sized cupcake. Baby pink from head to toe. She hugs me, coughs at my jasmine perfume, and… And…”
Sasha snorted. “I knew it. I knew she’d be a tee-hee monster.”
“And the house? Floral vomit. Everywhere. The tissue box had roses.”
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Emma leaned in.
“Did she bring out the list immediately?”
I held up a finger. “Not yet. First, she asked if I actually work or if it’s just, you know, a hobby.”
“No!” Sasha gasped. “She did not.”
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“Oh, she did. And then,” I continued, voice rising, “she pulls out a list.”
Emma’s jaw dropped.
“What kind of medieval sorcery is that?”
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“She reached into a drawer like it was a magic hat — and pulled out my personal horror scroll. Pink. Floral. Smug.”
I reached into my bag and tossed the folded sheet on the table.
“I couldn’t sleep that night. I read it so many times, it’s burned into my brain.”
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My friends leaned over to read. I watched their faces twist with each line. Here’s what it said:
1. Lose 10 pounds before the wedding. No exceptions.
2. Agree with your mother-in-law. Always.
3. Get a proper job. Hobbies are not working
4. Handle all housework. Without complaining.
5. Clean my house every weekend. Bathrooms included.
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6. I will choose the baby’s name. No discussion.
7. Cut contact with all men except your husband. Even at work.
8. Give me a key to your home. I need full access.
9. Keep your phone’s location on at all times.
10. Do not argue with me. I am always right.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
Emma leaned back slowly.
“That woman is two pearls away from full-blown dictatorship.”
Sasha looked at me.
“So… what did you do? Did you tell Dylan?”
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“No. I didn’t want to crush him. Not yet. But I knew I had to wake him up from the syrupy-pink fog Elen’s got him in.”
“You didn’t…”
“Oh, I did. I decided to follow the rules. Every single one. With my own interpretation.”
“You’re going to play her game?”
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“Exactly. I start next weekend. With item number five.”
Sasha grabbed it and read aloud.
“Clean my house every weekend. Bathrooms included.”
“Oh, I’m going,” I said, already feeling that fire in my chest. “But the cleaning won’t be quite what she expects.”
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***
It was Saturday morning. Sun shining, birds chirping, my revenge plan locked and loaded. I had Dylan’s spare key from Elen’s house.
I arrived at 10 a.m. in full cleaning mode. Rubber gloves. A tote bag filled with goodies. A fresh can of ultra-strong jasmine air freshener. And a single red sock.
Let the games begin.
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Step one: Laundry. I found her perfectly folded white sheets — Egyptian cotton, monogrammed — and casually tossed them into the washer with the red sock I’d brought for this very mission. The cycle began. I grinned.
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Step two: Scent domination. I sprayed jasmine air freshener in every corner of every room.
Two spritzes in the bathroom.
Three in the hallway.
One on the welcome mat — because first impressions matter.
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Step three: The rearrangement. I moved her ceramic angel collection from the fireplace mantel to the kitchen counter. The TV remote went into the wardrobe. Her favorite slippers? Her “FAMILY IS FOREVER” wooden sign? Hung upside down.
And then came the Cupid. That little bronze nightmare glared at me from the garden, as if daring me.
I wrapped him gently in a towel and carried him to…I’ll tell you later.
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By noon, the house was spotless. But it no longer screamed “Elen.” It screamed “new management.”
I closed the door behind me and practically skipped home.
***
The next morning, just as I was tying my sneakers to head out, someone started pounding on my door. I opened it.
Elen stood there, wild-eyed, hair slightly askew, holding a pink bedsheet like it was a crime scene photo.
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“You turned my entire house into a scented circus!” she yelled. “Everything smells like cheap perfume! My shirts are pink! And where is my Cupid?!”
I blinked innocently.
“Oh, good morning. I think you are fond of pink.”
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“Don’t ‘good morning’ me! I want everything back the way it was! Now!”
“Oh… sorry. Can’t.”
She stared at me.
“I’m late for the gym,” I said casually, tying my shoelace tighter. “Punct number one on your list, remember? Lose ten pounds before the wedding.”
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Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“And the statue?” she hissed.
“Oh, I thought It’s trash. So I hired guys to get it out.”
“How dare you?!”
Just then, Dylan appeared behind me, rubbing his eyes.
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“Mom? Why are you yelling?”
“Ask her!” Elen said, spinning toward him. “She sabotaged my home! She poisoned the air! And she… she threw out Cupid!”
Dylan blinked. “Cupid?”
“My statue! My precious little bronze guardian!”
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“Cupid’s not gone. He’s just… enjoying a quiet retirement in the garage. I thought he deserved a break from all that pollen. I just followed the rules,” I said sweetly, pulling the crumpled pink paper from my bag and handing it to Dylan.
His eyes moved line by line.
“Mom… what is this?”
“A helpful guide! To support her! To prepare her for a life with you!”
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“With me or with you?”
I grabbed my gym bag and smiled.
“Anyway, I really have to run. Zumba waits for no one.”
Elen’s nostrils flared. I looked over my shoulder with one last, sugar-sweet nod.
“Don’t worry. I’m taking your list very seriously. You might want to start your own.”
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Just before I reached the door, Dylan turned to his mother.
“Mom, we really need to talk. And this time, I need you to listen.”
I stepped outside, letting the door click softly behind me, and left my future MIL standing face to face with her sin, the man I loved, finally ready to draw his own lines.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: I was working a night shift, exhausted but grateful—until I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw my husband in the back seat… with another woman. I stayed silent, already planning his downfall.
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