I was stunned when my husband, Jake, handed me a schedule to help me “become a better wife.” But instead of blowing up, I played along. Little did Jake know, I was about to teach him a lesson that would make him rethink his newfound approach to marriage.
I’ve always prided myself on being the level-headed one in our marriage. Jake, bless his heart, could get swept up in things pretty easily, whether it was a new hobby, or some random YouTube video that promised to change his life in three easy steps.
A man on an armchair | Source: Pexels
But we were solid until Jake met Steve. Steve was the type of guy who thought being loudly opinionated made him right, the type that talks right over you when you try to correct him.
He was also a perpetually single guy (who could have guessed?), who graciously dispensed relationship advice to all his married colleagues, Jake included. Jake should’ve known better, but my darling husband was positively smitten with Steve’s confidence.
I didn’t think much of it until Jake started making some noxious comments.
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“Steve says relationships work best when the wife takes charge of the household,” he’d say. Or “Steve thinks it’s important for women to look good for their husbands, no matter how long they’ve been married.”
I’d roll my eyes and reply with some sarcastic remark, but it was getting under my skin. Jake was changing. He’d arch his eyebrows if I ordered takeout instead of cooking, and sigh when I let the laundry pile up because, God forbid, I had my own full-time job.
And then it happened. One night, he came home with The List.
A serious woman | Source: Pexels
He sat me down at the kitchen table, unfolded a piece of paper, and slid it across to me.
“I’ve been thinking,” he started, his voice dripping with a condescending tone I hadn’t heard from him before. “You’re a great wife, Lisa. But there’s room for improvement.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Oh really?”
He nodded, oblivious to the danger zone he was entering. “Yeah. Steve helped me realize that our marriage could be even better if you, you know, stepped up a bit.”
A man | Source: Pexels
I stared at the paper in front of me. It was a schedule… and he’d written “Lisa’s Weekly Routine for Becoming a Better Wife” at the top in bold.
This guy had actually sat down and mapped out my entire week based on what Steve — a single guy with zero relationship experience — thought I should do to “improve” myself as a wife.
I was supposed to wake up at 5 a.m. every day to make Jake a gourmet breakfast. Then I’d hit the gym for an hour to “stay in shape.”
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After that? A delightful lineup of chores: cleaning, laundry, ironing. And that was all before I left for work. I was supposed to cook a meal from scratch every evening and make fancy snacks for Jake and his friends when they came over to hang out at our place.
The whole thing was sexist and insulting on so many levels I didn’t even know where to start. I ended up staring at him, wondering if my husband had lost his mind.
“This will be great for you, and us,” he continued, oblivious.
A happy man | Source: Pexels
“Steve says it’s important to maintain structure, and I think you could benefit from —”
“I could benefit from what?” I interrupted, my voice dangerously calm. Jake blinked, caught off guard by the interruption, but he recovered quickly.
“Well, you know, from having some guidance and a schedule.”
I wanted to throw that paper in his face and ask him if he’d developed a death wish. Instead, I did something that surprised even me: I smiled.
A woman smiling | Source: Midjourney
“You’re right, Jake,” I said sweetly. “I’m so lucky that you made me this schedule. I’ll start tomorrow.”
The relief on his face was instant. I almost felt sorry for him as I got up and stuck the list on the fridge. Almost. He had no idea what was coming.
The next day, I couldn’t help but smirk as I studied the ridiculous schedule again. If Jake thought he could hand me a list of “improvements,” then he was about to find out just how much structure our life could really handle.
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I pulled out my laptop, opened up a fresh document, and titled it, “Jake’s Plan for Becoming the Best Husband Ever.” He wanted a perfect wife? Fine. But there was a cost to perfection.
I began by listing all the things he had suggested for me, starting with the gym membership he was so keen on. It was laughable, really.
“$1,200 for a personal trainer.” I typed, barely containing my giggle.
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Next came the food. If Jake wanted to eat like a king, that wasn’t happening on our current grocery budget. Organic, non-GMO, free-range everything? That stuff didn’t come cheap.
“$700 per month for groceries,” I wrote. He’d probably need to chip in for a cooking class too. Those were pricey, but hey, perfection wasn’t free.
I leaned back in my chair, laughing to myself as I imagined Jake’s face when he saw this. But I wasn’t done. Oh no, the pièce de résistance was still to come.
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See, there was no way I could juggle all these expectations while holding down my job. If Jake wanted me to dedicate myself full-time to his absurd routine, then he’d have to compensate for the loss of my income.
I pulled up a calculator, estimating the value of my salary. Then, I added it to the list, complete with a little note: “$75,000 per year to replace Lisa’s salary since she will now be your full-time personal assistant, maid, and chef.”
My stomach hurt from laughing at this point.
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And just for good measure, I threw in a suggestion about him needing to expand the house. After all, if he was going to have his friends over regularly, they’d need a dedicated space that wouldn’t intrude on my newly organized, impossibly structured life.
“$50,000 to build a separate ‘man cave’ so Jake and his friends don’t disrupt Lisa’s schedule.”
By the time I was done, the list was a masterpiece. A financial and logistical nightmare, sure, but a masterpiece nonetheless. It wasn’t just a counterattack — it was a wake-up call.
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I printed it out, set it neatly on the kitchen counter, and waited for Jake to come home. When he finally walked through the door that evening, he was in a good mood.
“Hey, babe,” he called out, dropping his keys on the counter. He spotted the paper almost immediately. “What’s this?”
I kept my face neutral, fighting the urge to laugh as I watched him pick it up. “Oh, it’s just a little list I put together for you,” I said sweetly, “to help you become the best husband ever.”
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Jake chuckled, thinking I was playing along with his little game. But as he scanned the first few lines, the grin started to fade. I could see the wheels turning in his head, the slow realization that this wasn’t the lighthearted joke he thought it was.
“Wait… what is all this?” He squinted at the numbers, his eyes widening as he saw the total costs. “$1,200 for a personal trainer? $700 a month for groceries? What the hell, Lisa?”
I leaned against the kitchen island, crossing my arms.
A kitchen island | Source: Pexels
“Well, you want me to wake up at 5 a.m., hit the gym, make gourmet breakfasts, clean the house, cook dinner, and host your friends. I figured we should budget for all of that, don’t you think?”
His face turned pale as he flipped through the pages. “$75,000 a year? You’re quitting your job?!”
I shrugged. “How else am I supposed to follow your plan? I can’t work and be the perfect wife, right?”
He stared at the paper, dumbfounded.
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The numbers, the absurdity of his own demands, it all hit him at once. His smugness evaporated, replaced by a dawning realization that he had seriously, seriously messed up.
“I… I didn’t mean…” Jake stammered, looking at me with wide eyes. “Lisa, I didn’t mean for it to be like this. I just thought —”
“You thought what? That I could ‘improve’ myself like some project?” My voice was calm, but the hurt behind it was real. “Jake, marriage isn’t about lists or routines. It’s about respect. And if you ever try to ‘fix’ me like this again, you’ll be paying a hell of a lot more than what’s on that paper.”
A serious woman | Source: Pexels
Silence hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable. Jake’s face softened, his shoulders slumping as he let out a deep sigh.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize how ridiculous it was. Steve made it sound sensible, but now I see it’s… it’s toxic. Oh God, I’ve been such a fool.”
I nodded, watching him carefully. “Yes, you have. Honestly, have you looked at Steve’s life? What makes you think he has the life experience to give you advice about marriage? Or anything else?”
The look on his face as my words hit home was priceless.
A couple having a heated discussion | Source: Midjourney
“You’re right. And he could never afford to live like this.” He slapped the list with the back of his hand. “He… he has no idea about the costs involved, or how demeaning this is. Oh, Lisa, I got carried away again, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but we’ll recover. Now, let’s tear that paper up and go back to being equals.”
He smiled weakly, the tension breaking just a little. “Yeah… let’s do that.”
We ripped up the list together, and for the first time in weeks, I felt like we were back on the same team.
Torn paper | Source: Pexels
Maybe this was what we needed, a reminder that marriage isn’t about one person being “better” than the other. It’s about being better together.
Here’s another story: Nora thought her marriage to Vincent was solid, but a routine kitchen cabinet check while he was away revealed a devastating secret. A seemingly ordinary jar held a truth so shocking that it led her to file for divorce on the spot.
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.
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***
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.
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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.
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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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