When Eric proposed, I thought I was saying yes to the love of my life. I didn’t know I was also agreeing to a humiliating “wife test.”
We’d been together three years—happy, equal partners. So when we hosted an engagement dinner with his parents, brothers, and their wives, I wanted everything perfect. I cleaned for days, cooked a full homemade meal, even printed menus. I wanted to belong.
After dessert, Eric’s mother, Martha, stood up and announced she would “allow” me to marry her son only if I passed the family wife test. I laughed—until I realized no one else was joking.
She handed me a list: cook without recipes, deep clean, iron and fold properly, host a tea party—and do it all with a smile. The other wives nodded. They’d all done it.
I refused. I work long hours, contribute equally, and wasn’t auditioning to be a 1950s housewife. Eric brushed it off as tradition and even handed me a dust cloth, urging me to comply.
That’s when I understood: he wouldn’t protect me.
I ended the dinner, locked myself in the guest room, and left the next morning. Later, Martha called to defend the “symbolic” test. I told her traditions either evolve—or end.
Eric keeps apologizing, but silence in that moment spoke louder than words. Love isn’t about passing tests. It’s about respect.
The wedding is on pause. And unless that cycle breaks, I’m ready to walk away—with my dignity intact.
