A week after marrying Derek, I was still basking in newlywed bliss — until he came home grinning, holding a ribboned box. “Surprise!” he said. Inside wasn’t jewelry or something romantic, but a frilly floral apron and an old-fashioned black dress. “It’s your house uniform,” he announced proudly. “My mom wore one every day — it keeps things orderly.” I forced a smile, hiding my disbelief. Tradition, he called it. Submission, I thought.

The next morning, I decided to play along. I wore the outfit, pearls and all, making breakfast at dawn and scrubbing floors like a 1950s housewife. Derek was thrilled. “See? Doesn’t it just make everything more pleasant?” he said. I only smiled sweetly, planning my revenge. By the third day, I’d added an embroidered nametag to the apron: DEREK’S FULL-TIME HOUSEWIFE. I began calling him “sir” and asking for “permission” to use the bathroom.

By Saturday, when Derek’s boss came for dinner, I greeted them in full uniform, curtsying deeply. “Welcome to our home,” I said brightly. “The master of the house will be down shortly.” His boss looked horrified. “Did you used to work before this?” he asked. “I retired my dreams when I said ‘I do,’” I replied sweetly. Derek’s face turned crimson.

After the guests left, he exploded. “You made me look like a sexist pig!” I met his fury calmly. “I just lived your tradition,” I said. “You wanted a housewife, not a partner.” He finally admitted, “I went too far.”

Days later, after a tense HR meeting about his “traditional values,” Derek came home humbled. “You win,” he said quietly. I smiled. “No,” I corrected. “We both do. I’m wearing pants again — and getting my career back.” The apron stayed in the closet, where it belonged.