Just one week after I moved in with my brand-new husband, Derek, he surprised me with a gift. But instead of something romantic or thoughtful, he handed me a frilly apron and called it my “house uniform.”
He smiled proudly and said, “It’s just tradition.”
I stood there stunned. My smile froze on my face, but I forced myself to play along. Inside, though, something was already starting to twist.
Derek had no idea what he’d just started.
We were still in the honeymoon phase—literally. Just a week ago, we’d said our vows, danced all night, and taken a lovely trip to the coast. Now we were unpacking our things in our first home together.
I heard the jingle of Derek’s keys in the lock and his usual cheerful voice as he walked in.
“Honey? I’m home!”
“In the kitchen!” I called, placing a delicate crystal serving bowl—a gift from his aunt—into the cabinet.
He appeared in the doorway, suit jacket draped over his shoulder, that mischievous smile on his face. He was holding a large box wrapped in a ribbon.
“Surprise!” he said, raising his eyebrows like a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat.
I grinned, curious despite myself. “What’s this?”
“Open it and see,” he said, leaning against the counter, clearly pleased with himself.
I untied the ribbon and opened the lid. My face fell.
Inside was a floral, frilly apron and an old-fashioned, ankle-length black dress. I blinked, thinking maybe it was a joke. Was this a costume?
“It’s your house uniform,” Derek said proudly. “My mom wore one every day. Makes the home feel more… organized.”
I ran my fingers across the stiff cotton and gave the dress a suspicious look. The only thing missing was a white bonnet and maybe a butter churn.
“You’re serious?” I asked, keeping my voice flat.
“Totally,” he said, chuckling. “No pressure—it’s just tradition. Helps keep the homemaker mindset, y’know?”
I couldn’t believe it. This man actually thought I was going to dress up like a 1950s housewife.
“It’s… traditional, you say?” I asked carefully.
“Yeah! Just like Mom.” He beamed. “I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a surprise,” I said, smiling tightly.
He kissed my cheek and went to change clothes, still thrilled with himself. I just stood there, staring at that apron. Was this what I had signed up for?
I remembered how Derek had gently nudged me over the past year. When we met, I was a successful analyst. But he’d talked so sweetly about family life and raising kids. He told me how fulfilling it would be to stay home, bake bread, and pick up hobbies.
When I suggested remote work, he said, “You’ll be happier as a traditional wife. Trust me.”
I had agreed. I was willing to try. But this? This apron? This dress?
No. This was something else entirely.
That night, I placed the dress and apron neatly on our bed. I didn’t yell or throw it away. I had a better idea. A clever idea.
I pulled out my old sewing kit and started planning.
The next morning, I put it on. Yep—the full outfit. I looked like a Stepford Wife straight out of a TV show.
And I went all in.
I woke up early to make Derek breakfast. I vacuumed in pearls, polished the baseboards, folded laundry with a dreamy smile. I even wore lipstick while scrubbing the bathroom floor.
By day three, Derek was glowing.
“See? Doesn’t it just make everything more pleasant?” he said as I flipped pancakes in the kitchen.
“Oh, absolutely,” I said sweetly.
By day five, I was fully committed. I added white gloves and a name tag I had embroidered myself. It read:
“DEREK’S FULL-TIME HOUSEWIFE.”
And I started calling him “sir.”
“Good morning, sir,” I’d say as he came downstairs. “Would you like coffee, or should I wait for your command, sir?”
Derek looked confused. “Uh… the uniform is enough, honey. You don’t need to call me sir.”
“Oh, but sir,” I said sweetly, tilting my head, “should I wait by the door with your slippers at 6 p.m. sharp?”
That night, I knocked gently on his office door. “Permission to use the bathroom during my shift, sir?”
He frowned. “Okay, now you’re just being sarcastic.”
“Sarcastic?” I blinked innocently. “I thought this was tradition.”
For the big finale, I waited until the weekend. Derek had invited his boss and a few coworkers over for dinner. Perfect.
I answered the door in full uniform—dress, apron, gloves, pearls, and a bright smile.
“Welcome to our home,” I said with a curtsy. “The master of the house will be down shortly.”
His boss, Richard, gave me a strange look. “Are you… Derek’s wife?”
I nodded and pointed to my name tag. “I am, sir.”
He looked uncomfortable. “And what did you do before marriage?”
“I retired my dreams the day I said ‘I do,’” I said cheerfully. “Derek prefers it that way.”
When Derek came downstairs, his face turned red. “Honey,” he whispered, “we talked about this. You said the joke was over.”
“But I’m not joking, sir,” I said sweetly. “I’m embracing the tradition you love so much.”
The room went quiet. His coworkers looked shocked. One woman, Anita, raised her eyebrows so high I thought they might fly off.
“Proper role?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” I said. “The homemaker. Derek says the apron helps keep the right mindset.”
Dinner dragged on painfully. I only spoke when spoken to. Derek squirmed in his seat the entire night.
After they left, he exploded.
“What was that?” he snapped, yanking off his tie. “You made me look like a sexist jerk!”
I crossed my arms. “Me? I’m just living the dream you picked out. Remember? Tradition?”
“That’s not what I meant by tradition!”
“Then what did you mean?” I asked calmly. “Because giving me a uniform sure didn’t feel like love.”
“I thought… I just thought it would make things nice. Like my mom.”
“Your mom chose that life,” I said. “At least I hope she did. But you chose it for me.”
He rubbed his face. “Okay. I get it. The uniform was too much.”
“No, Derek,” I said firmly. “The uniform was a symptom. You don’t want a wife. You want a maid. Or maybe a mother.”
I took off the apron and hung it on a hook in the kitchen.
“I’m never wearing that thing again,” I said. “And you need to figure out if you married me because you love me—or because you wanted someone to play pretend.”
I walked out and left him standing in the kitchen.
The next morning, he kissed me goodbye like nothing had happened. But that evening, he came home pale, tense, and quiet.
“I got called into HR,” he said, dropping his keys. “Someone reported me. They asked about how I treat women at work. The company’s doing a diversity audit now.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh no. That sounds serious.”
He looked at the apron hanging in the kitchen and sighed. “You win.”
I closed my laptop and looked at him. “Actually, we both win. I get to wear jeans again. And you still have a job—for now.”
He hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry. I thought… I thought if it made Mom happy, it would make you happy, too.”
I nodded. “But I’m not her.”
That night, I folded up the dress and apron and shoved them to the back of the closet. Maybe one day we’d laugh about it. Or maybe I’d light it on fire in the backyard.
Either way, I smiled.
Victory didn’t need pearls or gloves.
It just needed a little sharp thread, a smart plan…
…and a perfectly stitched name tag.