The "Good Wife" Rulebook: A Battle of Wits and Worn-Out Expectations

Growing up, I pictured marriage as lazy Sunday mornings in bed, sharing laughs and secrets, built on mutual love and respect. But reality has a way of violently shaking you awake, especially when a mother-in-law is involved.

Bram and I had just gotten married. The wedding was perfect—small, cozy, everything I’d hoped for. For a short while, it truly felt like a fairy tale. Bram was sweet and funny, and I genuinely thought we were on the same page about our life together. That idyllic feeling lasted only until his mother, Greer, handed me her “special” gift right after the ceremony.

I was in our living room, still glowing from the day, when Greer approached me with a fancy box and a tight smile that never quite reached her eyes. “This is for you, Ryn,” she said. “A little help for your new and important role.”

Inside the box was a folded paper. I opened it, and my jaw dropped. At the very top, in bold, aggressive letters: “How to Be a Good Wife for My Son.”

I laughed instantly, thinking it was a joke, a playful jab at old-school marriage ideas. But as I read on, my smile evaporated. It was a completely serious list of demands—rules I was expected to follow without question.

I glanced at Bram, hoping he’d be as shocked as I was, but he was busy opening his own gift—a large check. I, meanwhile, got a rulebook.

Later that evening, Bram came to me with a shy, uneasy grin. “You got Mom’s rules, huh?” he said, as if it were no big deal.

“Yep,” I replied, the sarcasm heavy in my voice.

He shifted uncomfortably, scratching his neck. “Well, you know, that’s just how it is now. Marriage isn’t like dating.”

I stared, waiting for him to burst out laughing. He didn’t.

“You’re serious?” I asked, barely recognizing the man I’d married just hours ago.

He shrugged. “Mom says it keeps things in order and predictable.”

I had to bite my tongue hard to hold back a sharp, cutting reply. Keep things in order? That was how they saw me now? I felt utterly trapped, but I wasn’t going to give in. If they wanted to play this game, I decided, I would play—but entirely on my own terms.

---

The Weaponized Obedience

After Bram fell into an immediate sleep, I read the list again, my hands shaking with a mixture of shock and white-hot anger. The document was frankly ridiculous.

Here is a small taste of the nonsense I was expected to live by:

• At 6 a.m., be dressed, fully made-up, and actively cooking Bram’s breakfast. No veggies, milk, or butter—just plain eggs and toast, perfectly golden brown, served strictly on a blue plate. The green one ruins his appetite.

• Do all grocery shopping alone. Bram hates stores, and they’re no place for a man. Buy his favorite beer, but not too much—just enough for football nights so he doesn’t “get lazy.” Carry all bags yourself; asking for help isn’t ladylike.

• After dinner, clean the kitchen spotless before Bram leaves the table. Men shouldn’t see mess. Stack plates by size, wipe counters twice—Bram’s picky about crumbs.

• Dress modestly when Bram’s friends visit. Nothing above the knee or low-cut, or you’ll look “modern” and embarrass him.

• Handle Bram’s laundry. Fresh, ironed clothes, socks folded in threes—not twos—because that’s how he likes it. Mismatched socks or wrinkled shirts make you look bad.

By the end, I was fuming. This wasn’t loving advice—it was a demand to live purely for Bram’s every whim, as if I had no other purpose in the world. Worst of all, Bram was perfectly fine with it.

The next morning, I woke at 6 a.m., as the rules commanded. I put on makeup and a nice dress, chuckling quietly at the sheer absurdity of the situation. If Greer wanted me to follow her rules, I decided, I would follow them to the exact, painful letter.

I made breakfast: one single, tiny slice of plain, unseasoned toast and one unseasoned boiled egg, plopped comically onto Bram’s huge blue plate. It looked utterly laughable.

I set it on the table, smiling sweetly as Bram walked in, rubbing his eyes. He stared at the plate, deeply confused. “Is this… it?”

I shook my head, feigning complete innocence. “Just following the rules exactly. Want another slice?”

He sighed heavily, picking up the dry toast. “No, it’s fine, Ryn.”

I watched him chew the most bland, boring meal imaginable, barely hiding my grin. This was going to be an enjoyable week.

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The Flip of the Script

That afternoon, I made a grand show of going grocery shopping. I grabbed my empty bags and marched out, making absolutely sure Bram saw me leave alone, per the rules. When I returned, I lugged every single heavy bag in by myself. Bram watched from the couch, looking visibly uneasy but staying quiet.

As I unpacked, he frowned. “Where’s the beer? I asked for beer.”

“Didn’t forget it,” I said brightly. “Just didn’t want you getting lazy with too much alcohol. Sparkling water’s much healthier!”

I pulled out sparkling water, green health juice, and bags of quinoa—stuff I knew he’d despise. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. He was beginning to sense something was deeply wrong, but I was only just getting started.

After dinner, I “cleaned” the kitchen. Instead of putting things away, I deliberately mixed it all up—plates stacked in the bathroom cupboard, utensils scattered in the laundry room, the toaster nestled in the hall closet.

Bram walked in, utterly puzzled. “Why is everything everywhere, Ryn?”

I frowned, fake-worried. “I’m trying so hard to clean perfectly! Maybe I need to wipe the counters three times, like the list implies?”

He blinked, defeated and lost, but let it go.

When Bram’s friends came over for football night, I leaned aggressively into the modesty rule. I wore a long skirt, a high-collared blouse, and a thick, shapeless cardigan fit for a nun. I looked like I’d stepped directly out of the 1800s.

I carried a tray of snacks into the living room. His friends glanced at me, confused but too polite to comment. Bram pulled me aside, whispering, “You really don’t have to dress like that, Ryn.”

I batted my eyes innocently. “But your mother said I need to be modest. We wouldn’t want them thinking I’m not the right kind of wife, would we?”

His friends swapped increasingly awkward looks. Bram’s face was priceless—he knew I was flipping the script and weaponizing the rules, and he was forced to play along.

For laundry day, I washed all his clothes in one enormous load—whites, darks, and colors all together. His crisp shirts came out a muted pink, and his socks were all tiny or mismatched. The next morning, he opened his drawer, pulling out one pink shirt after another. “What on earth happened to my clothes?”

“Oh no!” I said, faking distress. “I must have messed up the folding! I’ll fold the socks in threes next time, exactly like the rules say.”

He groaned, defeatedly shoving on a pair of mismatched, pink-tinged socks before heading to work. I couldn’t help but smile.

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The Triumphant Final Word

By the end of the week, Bram was utterly done. He was sitting down to eat another bland, tiny breakfast when Greer showed up, smiling smugly, assuming everything was running perfectly. She sat at the table, looking pleased with her “Good Wife” creation.

“Ryn, I’m so glad you’re following the rules! Isn’t life just better and simpler this way?”

I laughed softly. “Oh, Greer, you have absolutely no idea how much better.”

Bram slammed his fork down, startling both of us. “Mom, we need to talk right now.”

Greer blinked, genuinely shocked. “About what, dear?”

“These rules are completely ridiculous,” he said, his voice rising in genuine anger. “I’m miserable, Ryn’s miserable, and this is not how we are going to live our lives.”

Greer looked utterly aghast. “But, Bram, I just want you taken care of! This is the traditional way marriage works!”

“No, it’s not,” Bram said firmly, finally standing up for me. “Ryn is not my maid, and I am not a helpless kid who needs everything done for him according to a schedule. These rules are outdated, controlling, and frankly crazy. We are building our own family, our own life, our way—not with your rigid list.”

Greer froze, speechless. She hadn’t expected him to push back, especially not after her “special gift.”

I smiled, feeling lighter than I had all week. I grabbed the fancy box from the counter and handed it back to Greer, placing a small note inside: “Thanks, but no thanks. We’re out of blue plates.”

Greer left quietly soon after, her controlling influence over our new marriage finally gone.

I turned to Bram. He wrapped an arm around me, smiling genuinely this time. “Sorry I didn’t speak up sooner, Ryn.”

I leaned into him, my heart lighter than air. “Better late than never, my love.”

And with that, we started building our real marriage—free of lists, ridiculous rules, and old-fashioned, suffocating expectations.