When Eric got down on one knee and asked me to marry him, I thought I was saying yes to the love of my life. I had no idea I was also saying yes to a strange, humiliating family tradition—a so-called “wife test” that would turn my world upside down. What was supposed to be a joyful engagement dinner turned into a nightmare that made me question everything about love, loyalty, and being accepted.
Let me tell you how it all happened.
I’m Sarah, 30 years old. Eric is 32. We had been dating for three years, and honestly, we were a perfect match. Everything with him felt easy and natural. We laughed at dumb reality shows, went for Sunday picnics, and even had matching coffee mugs that said “Boss” and “Also Boss.”
So, when he proposed to me last fall at the cozy cabin we rented every year—just as snowflakes started falling—I didn’t even let him finish the question before I shouted, “Yes!”
I thought I was walking into a fairytale. But I didn’t know there was a test waiting for me. A test that would decide if I was “good enough” to join his family.
Eric’s parents and his three brothers with their wives were invited to our apartment for a small engagement dinner. Since my family lived overseas and couldn’t afford to come until the wedding, it was just me—completely surrounded by his people. And I wanted to make a good impression so badly.
I took two days off work. I cleaned every corner of the apartment, even behind the fridge. I cooked a full homemade meal—roast chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, sautéed green beans, fresh salad, and a chocolate mousse for dessert. I printed little menus that said “Eric & Sarah – Engaged! April 27” in fancy cursive and laminated them myself. I wanted everything to be perfect.
I knew his family was traditional. Old-school. But I told myself I could handle it. I even turned down Eric’s offer to help cook or set the table.
As guests arrived, I smiled, served drinks, and tried to hide my nervousness. Eric kept giving me reassuring looks, even a cute wink when I fussed with my hair. Everyone seemed to enjoy the food. They laughed at my stories. Holly, one of the wives, gave me a nod of approval when I poured the wine without spilling a drop.
Eric squeezed my hand under the table, and I thought, This is it. I’m part of the family now.
But there was one person who didn’t seem happy—his mother, Martha. She sat stiff and quiet most of the evening. I thought maybe she just needed time to warm up. But I was wrong.
Right after dessert, Martha suddenly stood up. She tapped her glass with a butter knife and smiled in a way that made my stomach twist. Everyone turned toward her. The room went quiet.
Then she said, loud and proud:
“I will allow you to marry my son only if you pass the family wife test.”
I actually laughed at first. I thought it was a joke.
But no one else was laughing.
The other wives just nodded like this was completely normal. I looked around. No one said a word. The only sound was the dishwasher humming in the background.
I looked at Eric, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
He just looked at me. Expecting me to go along with it.
“What test?” I asked, trying to smile, even though my face felt frozen.
Martha reached into her purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper like it was a holy scroll.
“It’s a tradition,” she said. “Every woman who marries into this family has to prove she’s ready to be a wife. It’s how we know you’re serious.”
Then she started reading the list:
- Cook a three-course meal from scratch without a recipe
- Deep clean an entire house, including blinds and baseboards
- Iron shirts and fold laundry “properly”
- Set a full dinner table with the correct place settings
- Host a tea party for the family matriarchs—including her
- And, she added, “Do it all with a smile.”
I blinked at her.
“You’re serious?” I asked.
Martha handed me the list like she was giving me a royal decree.
“The other wives all did it,” she said. “It’s just a sweet tradition passed down from my grandmother.”
I looked at the wives. They gave me solemn, serious expressions. Holly, the one who had smiled earlier, now said,
“We all did it. It’s part of becoming one of us.”
I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t cook and clean for fun. I work 50 hours a week and contribute equally to our relationship. I’m not here to play some 1950s housewife audition.”
Eric gave me a shrug like I was overreacting.
“They don’t mean anything by it, babe,” he said gently.
“It’s just tradition,” Martha added sweetly. “We just want to see if you’re truly ready for the responsibility of being a wife.”
Then Eric stood up and pulled something from his pocket. It was… a dust cloth.
“Babe, just do it,” he said. “It’ll mean a lot to them. It’s not like they’ll actually reject you.”
That’s when I realized—I wasn’t just marrying Eric. I was marrying into a club with rules, tests, and an outdated playbook. And Eric wasn’t going to protect me.
I stood up, brushed off my dress, and looked at the table.
“Thank you all for coming. Dinner is over.”
Martha gasped. One of Eric’s brothers made a weird choking sound—maybe a laugh, maybe not. Eric’s dad just kept eating like nothing happened.
Eric followed me into the kitchen, angry and whispering.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
“Ending the audition,” I snapped.
“You’re making a scene, babe! This is just how they show love!” he hissed.
“Well, it’s not how I want to be loved,” I said. “I’m not doing chores to earn a marriage. I’m not playing your mother’s game.”
Eric stood there, speechless.
That night, I locked myself in the guest room. Eric kept knocking and begging to talk. I ignored him. The next morning, I packed a bag and left. I went to stay with my best friend Monica.
I needed quiet. Space. Time to think.
Eric sent texts. Apologies. Long ones. The last one said:
“I just wanted us all to get along. That’s all.”
I couldn’t bring myself to reply.
Then, two days later, Martha called.
“Can we talk?” she said. “Woman to woman.”
I almost hung up. But curiosity won.
“Things got out of hand,” she said. “The test is symbolic. It’s not supposed to hurt anyone. I just needed to see if you’re really serious about Eric.”
“You want to know how serious I am?” I said. “Then you should have treated me with basic respect. Not handed me a dust cloth like a maid.”
“I didn’t mean to offend,” she said. “It’s just how our family works. Every wife has done it.”
“Well, traditions evolve,” I said sharply. “Or they die.”
She never called again.
Eric kept texting, begging for another chance.
But here’s the thing—he didn’t stand up for me when it counted. He let them test me like I was applying for a job, not getting married. And I started to wonder: if he stayed quiet this time, what else would he stay quiet about in the future?
One night, Monica handed me a glass of wine and said,
“You know, you could talk to him. Maybe he really didn’t know how bad it was.”
“I could,” I said. “But love isn’t about passing tests. It’s about being seen. And I don’t think they’ll ever really see me.”
The wedding is still on pause.
I haven’t made a final decision. But I do know this: I’ll never marry into a family that needs me to scrub floors and smile just to be accepted.
If Eric wants to be with me, truly be with me, he’ll have to break that cycle—for good.
And if he can’t?
Then I’ll walk away. Clean hands. Clean floors. And a clean start.
