When my boyfriend Dylan proposed, I expected joy, planning, and lots of cake tasting — not a list of 10 rules from his mother on how to be the “perfect” wife. But instead of throwing it out or confronting her, I played along… in a way she’d never forget.
I’ve always lived simply. Work hard, enjoy small things, dream of travel, and maybe raise a family one day. Life wasn’t about perfection — until I met Dylan.
He was everything people gushed about: kind, well-dressed, thoughtful. The type of guy that seemed too good to be real. But he was, and I fell hard. Grocery trips and shared chores only made us stronger.
So when he knelt in the middle of our favorite street and proposed, I said yes without hesitation.
Then came the curveball: meeting his mother.
Dylan raved about her. Sweet, brilliant baker, a legend with lemon tarts. But something in his tone felt… cautious.
The moment I met Elen, I got it.
She smelled like a mix of roses and baby powder, wore head-to-toe pastel, and critiqued my jasmine perfume before I could even sit down. Polite, sugary, and somehow sharp at the same time — she wasn’t just a mother-in-law, she was a walking rom-com villain in pink satin.
Everything seemed fine — until Dylan left the room.
Elen turned to me, smile tight, and slid a floral-edged pink paper across the table like it was a peace treaty.
“10 Rules for the Perfect Future Daughter-in-Law,” it read.
I scanned the list. My jaw nearly hit the floor.
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Lose 10 pounds before the wedding
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Let her name the baby
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Always share my location
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Give her a key to our house
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Never disagree with her — because she’s “always right”
It was a dictatorship disguised as a to-do list.
Back home, I ranted to my friends. Then I got an idea — if she wanted me to follow the rules, I’d do just that. Literally. Just not how she expected.
Saturday came. Game on.
I arrived at Elen’s while she was out, armed with gloves, jasmine spray, and a red sock.
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Washed her crisp white sheets with the sock. Pink perfection.
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Spritzed jasmine — her “least favorite” — in every room.
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Rearranged everything, including her creepy bronze Cupid statue. (He deserved retirement.)
The next morning, she showed up at my door, fuming and holding a pink sheet like it was evidence from a crime scene.
She shouted. I smiled.
When Dylan appeared, bleary-eyed, I handed him the rule list. His expression shifted as he read it.
“Mom… what is this?”
Her explanation? “Just preparing her!”
His response? “For life with me… or with you?”
I left for Zumba after that, satisfied. Dylan was finally seeing the strings she tried to pull — and he was starting to cut them himself.
Elen gave me her rules. I followed them — in spirit.
Because sometimes, the best way to deal with control is to take it back — with grace, glitter, and a dash of jasmine.
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