You think you’re entering a dream when you marry the person you love. But that dream can quickly become a nightmare when you receive a list of rules about how to be a “good wife.” This is where my revenge started.
As a child, I always imagined that marriage would be different. I pictured Sunday mornings in bed, sharing laughs and secrets, and a partnership based on love and respect. But reality has a strange way of surprising you.
Dan and I had just gotten married. The wedding was perfect—small, intimate, everything I had always dreamed of. For a while, it felt like a fairy tale. Dan was kind and funny, and I truly believed we shared the same ideas about how we wanted to live our lives together. That was until Karen, his mother, gave me a gift after the ceremony.
I remember standing in our living room, still feeling happy from the wedding, when Karen came up to me with her “special” present.
“This is for you, Lucia. A little something to help you as you start your new role.” She handed me a fancy box with a big smile, but her eyes didn’t match her cheerful expression.
Inside the box was a neatly folded piece of paper. When I opened it, my mouth dropped. At the top, in bold letters, it said: “How to Be a Good Wife for My Son.”
At first, I laughed, thinking it was a joke. Maybe Karen was making fun of those old-fashioned ideas about marriage.
But as I kept reading, my smile faded. It was a real list—actual rules I was supposed to follow as Dan’s wife.
I looked at Dan, hoping he’d be as shocked as I was, but he was busy opening his own gift. A check. A big one, too. And me? I got a rulebook.
Later that evening, Dan came to me with a sheepish grin. “You got the rules my mom gave you, didn’t you?” he asked, as if it were just a casual suggestion, not a guide for a life of serving him.
“Yep… I did,” I replied, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice but not succeeding.
Dan shifted awkwardly and scratched the back of his neck. “Well, you know, that’s just how it is now. Marriage is different from dating.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to smile, to say it was all a joke. But he didn’t.
“Wait… You’re serious?” I asked, looking at him like I didn’t recognize the man I had just married.
He shrugged. “It’s just how things are. Mom says it’s important to keep order, you know?”
I bit my lip, holding back a sharp reply. Keep order. That’s how they saw me now?
After Dan fell asleep, I read through the list again, my hands shaking with anger. I couldn’t believe the nerve.
At 6 a.m., I had to be fully dressed and made up, cooking a hot breakfast for Dan. No veggies, no milk, no butter—he only likes plain eggs and toast. The toast must be perfectly golden brown, and it has to be served on a blue plate because the green one ruins his appetite.
Do all the grocery shopping myself. Dan hates shopping, and it’s no place for a man. Always buy his favorite beer, but not too much—just enough for football nights, but not so much he gets lazy. And I had to carry everything in myself because it’s unladylike to ask for help.
After dinner, the kitchen had to be spotless before Dan even left the dining room. Men shouldn’t see a mess; they must enter a clean space. And always stack the plates by size, wiping the counters twice because Dan hates crumbs.
Dress conservatively when Dan’s friends come over. We don’t want them thinking I’m too “modern” or that I’m not the “right kind of wife.” A good wife never wears anything above the knee, and the neckline should always be high. Anything else would embarrass Dan in front of his buddies.
Make sure Dan never does his laundry. A good wife always has fresh, ironed clothes ready, and socks folded just right—three folds, not two—because that’s how Dan likes them. He should never have to pick out mismatched socks or wear a wrinkled shirt. It reflects poorly on me if he does.
By the time I finished reading, I was furious. This wasn’t just outdated advice; it was a full-on expectation that I cater to Dan’s every wish like I had no other purpose.
And the worst part? Dan was okay with it. He hadn’t even reacted when I mentioned the rules.
I felt trapped, but I wasn’t going to let them get away with this. If they wanted to play this game, I’d play along, but on my terms.
The morning after I read Karen’s list, I woke up at 6 a.m., just like the rules said. I got out of bed, put on my makeup, and slipped into a nice dress.
I looked at myself in the mirror, quietly laughing at how silly this all was. But if Karen wanted me to play this part, I would—just with a twist.
I went downstairs and made breakfast, just like the rules said: plain toast and eggs. But I didn’t stop there. I took the tiniest slice of toast and a plain boiled egg and put them on Dan’s huge blue plate. The plate was so big that the small meal looked ridiculous.
I carefully set it on the table, smiling sweetly as Dan walked into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.
He looked at the plate, confused. “Isn’t there… anything else?”
I shook my head, smiling brightly. “Just following the rules. Plain eggs and toast! Want me to make another slice?”
Dan sighed, picking up the toast. “No… this is fine.”
I stood there watching him eat the driest breakfast ever, trying not to laugh. Oh, this was going to be entertaining.
Later that afternoon, I made a big show of going to the grocery store. I took my reusable bags and left the house, making sure Dan saw me go by myself, just like the rules said.
When I got back, I carried in all the bags myself, even the heavy ones. Dan watched from the couch, clearly uncomfortable but saying nothing. As I unpacked, he frowned.
“Where’s the beer? Did you forget it?” he asked.
“Oh no, I didn’t forget,” I said cheerfully. “I just didn’t want you getting lazy. Besides, sparkling water is good for you!”
I pulled out a six-pack of sparkling water, a big bottle of green juice, and some quinoa, knowing he wouldn’t touch any of them. Dan’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. I could see he was starting to realize something was off, but I was just getting started.
After dinner, I followed the other rules in the letter. I wiped down the counters, washed the dishes, and cleaned the kitchen—but not really.
Instead of putting everything back where it belonged, I rearranged the whole kitchen. Plates went in the bathroom cupboard, utensils in the laundry room, and the toaster? I put that in the hall closet.
Dan came into the kitchen, looking around in confusion. “Why is everything all over the place?”
I turned to him with a worried look. “I’m doing my best! Maybe I need to wipe the counters three times instead of two?”
He blinked at me, totally confused, but he let it go. The fun was just beginning.
When Dan’s friends came over for football night a few days later, I made sure to follow Karen’s rule about dressing modestly. I dug through my closet and found the most old-fashioned outfit I could: a long skirt, high-collared blouse, and a buttoned-up cardigan that looked like something from the 1800s.
As soon as Dan’s friends arrived, I walked into the living room with a tray of snacks. His friends looked me up and down, confused but polite enough not to say anything.
Dan pulled me aside as soon as he could, whispering, “You know you don’t have to dress like that, right?”
I widened my eyes innocently. “But your mom said I have to dress modestly. We wouldn’t want them getting the wrong idea about me, would we?”
Dan’s friends exchanged awkward glances, but I kept smiling sweetly. The look on Dan’s face was priceless; he was starting to see that I was flipping this whole “good wife” idea upside down, and he was stuck going along with it.
Laundry day came, and I followed the rules again, but with a twist. I washed all of Dan’s clothes together: whites, darks, colors—everything went in one load. When I pulled them out, his once-clean shirts were now a lovely shade of pink, and his socks were either shrunk or mismatched.
Dan opened his drawer the next morning, pulling out one wrinkled pink shirt after another. “What happened to my clothes? These socks don’t even match!”
I walked in with an apologetic look. “Oh no! I must’ve messed up. I’ll try folding them in threes next time, just like the rules say.”
He groaned, putting on his mismatched socks before heading to work, completely defeated. I couldn’t help but smile.
By the end of the week, Dan had had enough. He was trying to eat yet another bland breakfast when Karen arrived, her usual smile on her face. She sat at the table, looking pleased.
“Lucia, I’m so glad to see you following the rules! Isn’t life easier now?”
I laughed quietly. “Oh, Karen, you have no idea.”
Dan slammed his fork down, surprising both of us. “Mom, we need to talk.”
Karen blinked, confused. “Talk about what?”
“These rules… they’re crazy,” Dan said, his voice rising. “I’m miserable, Lucia’s miserable, and this isn’t how we’re going to live.”
Karen looked shocked. “But, Dan, I just want to make sure you’re taken care of! I thought this was how marriage should be!”
Dan shot me a glance, and I shrugged. I was just following the rules, right?
“We need to find our own way,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re my wife, not my maid.”
Karen’s face fell, her smile fading. “I was just trying to help. I didn’t mean to upset you both…”
But it was too late. The damage was done. We spent the next few days talking about what we wanted our marriage to look like, finally finding a balance between his mom’s outdated ideas and our modern life.
The change didn’t happen overnight, but eventually, we found a way to laugh about the whole ordeal, especially when Dan had to explain to his mom why he was now making breakfast for me on Saturdays.
Karen never brought up the rules again, and I made sure to return the fancy box she gave me, filled with the crumpled paper and an assortment of mismatched socks. I told her I didn’t need them anymore.
Looking back, I can’t help but think that her gift, while ridiculous, actually brought us closer together. Dan and I learned how to communicate better, and we established what we wanted from our marriage without anyone else’s rules getting in the way.
I Thought I Knew My Mother Until a Hidden Birth Bracelet Revealed a Different Story – Story of the Day
I thought I knew everything about my mother until I found a birth bracelet in the attic. Not mine. The name on it revealed a secret that shattered my reality and sent me searching for the truth.
After my father’s death, the bond between my mother and me had frayed. With her Alzheimer’s erasing pieces of her every day, it felt as if I were navigating a maze of memories that weren’t entirely mine. The decision to place her in a care facility weighed on me like a lead blanket.
“It’s what’s best,” I whispered to myself, though the words felt hollow.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
I wasn’t equipped to give her the care she needed, but the guilt gnawed at me all the same.
Packing up her belongings was part of the process, though it felt more like dismantling her life piece by piece. I climbed the narrow steps to the attic and knelt by the nearest box, brushing away cobwebs before opening.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
I expected the usual: old photo albums or yellowed papers she hadn’t used in years. Instead, my hand froze as I pulled out a small, yellowed hospital bracelet.
The text on it blurred as I reread the name over and over:
“Baby Boy Williams, 12-15-83, Claire W.”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
My fingers trembled as I reached back into the box. There was a delicate baby blanket with the initials “C.W.” stitched into one corner. Beneath it was a black-and-white photo of my mother holding a baby. She looked impossibly young, her face glowing with love.
The back read: “My Collin, Winter 1983.”
I stared at the photo.
Collin? Who are you? My brother? And where are you now?
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
***
I brought the bracelet and photo downstairs, holding them so tightly my knuckles turned white. My mother was in her favorite armchair, her frail frame almost swallowed by the oversized cushions. She stared out the window, her expression serene. To anyone else, she might have looked calm, at peace even. But I knew better. That stillness masked the fog of Alzheimer’s, the disease that had stolen so much of her mind.
“Mom,” I said softly, walking over and kneeling beside her. “I need to ask you something.” I placed the bracelet and photo on her lap, watching her eyes flicker toward them. For a brief moment, I thought I saw recognition in her gaze, but it passed as quickly as it came.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
Her fingers brushed over the photo, and she muttered something under her breath. “Sunlight… warm… chocolate cake,” she said, her words drifting into nonsense. “The flowers were so pretty that day.”
I felt my chest tighten. “Mom, please,” I urged, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “Who is Collin? Why didn’t you ever tell me about him?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she rambled about a cat we never owned and a picnic that may or may not have happened. My hope started to crumble.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
I sank onto the floor beside her, exhausted. The bracelet and photo were still on her lap, untouched. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to steady myself. Then, she spoke again, her voice clear and soft, like a distant echo of the mother I used to know.
“It was a winter morning,” she began, her gaze fixed on something I couldn’t see. “The sun was shining through the window. I named him Collin.”
My breath caught. I stayed silent, afraid to break whatever fragile thread had surfaced in her memory.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
“He was beautiful,” she whispered. “But his father took him away. Said it was for the best.”
Her words hit me like a wave. “His father?” I whispered. “Who is he? Why did he take Collin?”
Before I could ask more, her clarity slipped away. Her eyes clouded, and she began repeating, “The Bread Basket… The Bread Basket…”
“What does that mean, Mom?” I pressed gently, but she only repeated it like a mantra.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
***
I couldn’t stop thinking about Collin. I decided to go to the hospital where I was born, the only one in the city. My mother’s memory was unreliable, but being in a familiar place could trigger something.
“We’re going to the hospital where Collin was born,” I told her as I helped her into the car.
She looked at me, her expression distant. “Hospital? Why?”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
“You mentioned Collin before, remember? I need to know more about him.”
Her hands fidgeted in her lap. “Collin… I don’t know if I remember.”
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “Maybe being there will help.”
The drive was quiet, apart from her occasional murmurs.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
“Sunlight… winter mornings,” she whispered, staring out the window. “He had the softest blanket…”
When we arrived, the hospital looked just as I remembered it from my childhood—small, with its faded brick exterior and slightly overgrown bushes by the entrance. I helped Mom out of the car, and her eyes scanned the building as though trying to place it.
Inside, I explained our visit to the receptionist, who directed us to Dr. Miller, the head doctor.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
“Dr. Miller,” I began, once we were seated in her office, “I found this bracelet and photo. My mother… She had a son, Collin, two years before me. I need to know what happened.”
Dr. Miller examined the bracelet and photo, her expression softening.
“I remember Claire,” she said, looking at my mother. “She was so young when she had Collin.”
My mother shifted uncomfortably in her chair but said nothing.
“What happened to him?” I asked, leaning forward.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
Dr. Miller sighed. “Collin’s father came back into the picture after he was born, much older than Clarie. He wasn’t her boyfriend at the time, but someone from her past. He wanted to raise the baby himself.”
My mother’s head turned slightly, her eyes narrowing as if trying to follow the conversation.
“Claire was devastated,” Dr. Miller continued. “She loved Collin, but the boy’s father took Collin when he was just a few months old. He wrote to me for a while, asking for advice on caring for Collin. Then the letters stopped. But I do remember him mentioning he planned to move to another town.”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
“What town?” I asked quickly.
Dr. Miller jotted it down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “Here. It’s about five hours from here.”
“Thank you,” I said, standing up. “This means so much to me.”
As we left, I couldn’t stop thinking about driving to that town. My brother Collin existed and I was determined to find him.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
***
The journey felt like an eternity, not just because of the five-hour drive but because every minute required my full attention. My Mom lost in her fragmented world, needed constant reminders and gentle guidance.
“Is it time to eat?” she asked, even after finishing a sandwich minutes earlier.
I patiently offered her small snacks, unwrapping them as though presenting a gift.
At one point, she handed me a yogurt with a puzzled expression. “How do you open this?”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
I smiled, peeling back the foil lid. “Like this, Mom. Just like you showed me when I was little.”
As I handed it back, a wave of emotion hit me. I remembered her delicate hands guiding mine as a child, showing me how to hold a spoon, tie my shoes, and even fold paper into makeshift airplanes. Back then, her patience seemed infinite.
Somewhere along the way, that connection had slipped away. But at that moment, it was as though the roles were reversed.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
We finally arrived in the quiet, sleepy town. It was like stepping into a picture from decades ago—small storefronts, weathered buildings, and not a soul on the streets.
I stepped out and stretched, glancing around with uncertainty.
“Where is everyone?” I muttered, more to myself than to my mother.
A passing man overheard and pointed down the road. “Town fair. Everyone’s there. You should check it out.”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
The fair seemed like the best place to start. If Collin lived in that town, he might be among the crowds. I helped my mother out of the car, her grip firm on my arm as we walked toward the colorful booths.
The scent of caramelized sugar and fried food filled the air, blending with the lively hum of laughter.
But as we moved deeper into the fairgrounds, my mother began to grow restless. Her voice, usually so soft, rose with urgency.
“The Bread Basket… The Bread Basket…” she repeated almost pleading.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
I stopped, kneeling slightly to face her. “What is it, Mom?”
Before she could answer, a vendor overheard and chimed in with a smile.
“Oh, The Bread Basket? That’s the bakery just down the street. Great choice!”
My heart skipped. That was it. With renewed energy, I guided my mother down the street to a quaint shop with a hand-painted sign that read “The Bread Basket.” The scent of freshly baked bread, cinnamon, and butter wrapped around us as we entered.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
At the counter, I asked cautiously, “Do you know anyone named Collin?”
The worker smiled knowingly. “Collin? He’s the owner. Let me get him for you.”
A moment later, a man emerged, wiping his hands on an apron. He was taller than I’d imagined, with a sturdy build and quiet confidence. But it was his eyes. Deep and familiar—they were my mother’s eyes.
For a moment, none of us spoke. Collin studied me with curiosity, and I felt the weight of the years and secrets between us.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
“My name is Mia, and this is my mother, Claire. I found a birth bracelet with your name on it among her things.”
Collin stared at me, his brow furrowing. “My name? From her?”
I nodded, feeling his confusion. My mother stirred beside me.
“David… The Bread Basket… He always said there’s nothing better than a basket of bread,” she murmured. “He promised me he’d name his bakery that one day.”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
Collin froze. “My God. David is my father.”
We moved to a small corner table, where I explained everything—the birth bracelet, the fragments of the story my mother had shared, and the path that had led me here.
Collin listened intently, his gaze flickering between me and our mother.
“It was his dream,” Collin finally said. “The Bread Basket… it was everything to him. And now, it’s mine too.”
The pieces began to align in my mind. The bakery was a connection that had survived decades of silence.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
We visited David the next day. Though frail, his eyes lit up the moment he saw my mother, a glow of warmth and shared memories filling the room. He took her hand gently, their bond needing no words.
“I thought it was best for everyone,” he said softly, his voice heavy with regret.
As the days passed, I watched them reconnect. I decided to stay, moving close to Collin’s bakery to help him and care for my mother.
For the first time, our family felt whole. Love had found its way back, stronger than ever.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
Tell us what you think about this story, and share it with your friends. It might inspire them and brighten their day.
Leave a Reply