A week after marrying Derek, I was still glowing from the wedding, the dreamy honeymoon, and the excitement of building a new life in our shared home. I thought I knew what I had signed up for. But then… he handed me the apron.
It happened on a sunny Tuesday. I was in the kitchen, unpacking a crystal serving bowl from one of our wedding gifts, when I heard Derek’s key turning in the lock.
“Honey? I’m home!” he called cheerfully, his voice echoing through the hallway.
“In the kitchen!” I shouted back, dusting off the bowl and placing it on the shelf.
He walked in with a smug grin, his suit jacket thrown casually over one shoulder, and in his other hand—a large, ribbon-wrapped box.
“Surprise!” he said, eyes twinkling as he held it out.
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? We agreed—no more gifts after the wedding.”
“Open it,” he said, leaning on the counter like he couldn’t wait another second.
Curious, I untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. My smile froze.
Inside was a frilly floral apron… and underneath it, a long, outdated, ankle-length black dress. It looked like something from the 1950s. Or maybe even earlier.
I looked up, confused. “What… is this?”
“It’s your house uniform,” he said proudly. “My mom wore one every day. It just makes things feel more… orderly.”
I stared at him. “You’re serious?”
He winked. “Totally. No pressure though—it’s just tradition. Helps keep the homemaker mindset, y’know?”
I forced a smile, but my brain was on fire. House uniform? Tradition? He wasn’t joking. He was actually serious.
“It’s definitely a surprise,” I said slowly, closing the box with fake care.
I had met Derek when I was working as an analyst. I had a solid job, a career I’d built from scratch. Over the year we dated, he gently nudged me toward leaving it behind. He said I’d love being a homemaker. That his income was enough for both of us. That I could take up hobbies, enjoy free time, and prepare for having kids.
I had agreed—agreed to try. But I never agreed to be dressed up like a 1950s Stepford Wife.
Still, I smiled that day. I said, “I’ll try it on later.” And I kissed his cheek as he went off to change clothes.
What he didn’t see was the plan already forming in my head.
That night, after he fell asleep, I laid the uniform across the bed. I dusted off my old sewing kit from college and stayed up quietly working until the clock struck two.
If he wanted a traditional wife, he was about to get one. In full force.
The next morning, I was up before sunrise. I wore the dress. I tied the apron. I even added pearls I’d inherited from Grandma. I made eggs, bacon, and pancakes—by 6:30 AM sharp.
“Wow,” Derek said, sitting down with a pleased grin. “See? Doesn’t it just make everything feel more pleasant?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I said sweetly.
Day two, I vacuumed the house in heels and pearls.
Day three, I scrubbed baseboards in full uniform, humming to myself.
By day five, I had embroidered something special onto the apron: a big, bold name tag that read: “DEREK’S FULL-TIME HOUSEWIFE.”
And that’s when the real fun began.
Every time Derek walked into the room, I greeted him like a 1950s sitcom character.
“Good morning, sir,” I said cheerfully. “Your breakfast is ready. Would you like orange juice or coffee, sir?”
He blinked. “You don’t have to call me sir, honey. That’s a bit much.”
I tilted my head. “But sir, I’m just trying to follow the house rules.”
Later that night, I stood at his office door.
“Permission to use the bathroom during my shift, sir?”
He stared at me. “Okay… this is getting weird. You don’t have to be sarcastic.”
“Sarcastic?” I asked, blinking innocently. “I thought this was tradition.”
Then came the weekend. Derek invited his boss and some coworkers over for dinner. I saw my golden opportunity.
When the doorbell rang, I greeted them in the full outfit—apron, gloves, pearls, the works—and dropped into a deep, dramatic curtsy.
“Welcome to our home,” I said with a soft smile. “The master of the house will be down shortly.”
Richard, his boss, blinked. “Er… are you Derek’s wife?”
I pointed to my embroidered apron. “Yes, sir. I am.”
Anita, one of Derek’s coworkers, raised a brow. “You’re… serious?”
“Oh yes,” I said brightly. “I retired my dreams when I said ‘I do.’ Derek prefers it this way. He believes tradition is important.”
Derek walked in just then, face turning the same color as a tomato.
“Honey,” he hissed. “Didn’t we agree the joke had gone far enough?”
I smiled sweetly. “I’m not joking, sir.”
The room fell into awkward silence. Anita shot Derek a long, sharp look.
Later, after the painfully uncomfortable dinner, Derek exploded as soon as the door shut behind our guests.
“What was that?” he shouted. “You made me look like some kind of sexist jerk!”
I shrugged. “I thought I was being a good wife. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“That’s not what I meant by tradition!”
I crossed my arms. “Then what did you mean? Because handing me a uniform and calling it ‘tradition’ makes it sound a lot like you want a maid, not a partner.”
He rubbed his face with both hands. “It was just an idea! My mom—she always wore one.”
“Your mom chose that life,” I said firmly. “You didn’t even ask me. You just assumed I’d do it, because you decided it was right.”
Derek’s shoulders slumped. “I… I didn’t mean to force you.”
“But you did,” I said, lifting the apron off the hook in the kitchen. “And I’m never wearing this again.”
I walked out of the room and left him standing there.
The next morning, something shifted.
He kissed me goodbye like normal, but that evening, when he came home, he looked pale and shaken. He dropped his keys on the table with a loud clatter.
“Rough day?” I asked from the couch, wearing jeans and typing on my laptop.
“I got called into HR,” he said quietly. “Someone reported what they saw here during dinner. They asked about my ‘traditional values’ and how I treat women at work. They’re doing a diversity audit now.”
I blinked innocently. “Really? That sounds… serious.”
His eyes drifted to the apron still hanging on the hook.
“You win,” he said softly. “I saw a lifestyle that looked charming… but I didn’t see how controlling it really was.”
I closed my laptop and leaned forward. “In that case, we both win. I get to wear pants again. And guess what—I started applying for remote jobs today.”
He opened his mouth, probably to protest. But then he just nodded.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “My mom always looked so happy in her role… I thought maybe—”
“You thought I’d feel the same. But I’m not your mom,” I said gently.
That night, I folded the dress and apron neatly, stuffed them into a storage box, and shoved it to the back of the closet.
Maybe one day we’d laugh about it.
Or maybe one day, we’d set it on fire in the backyard and roast marshmallows over it.
Either way, I smiled to myself as I closed the closet door.
The scent of victory? Sharper than lemon polish.
And I wore it better than any frilly apron ever could.
