“Right. Like your mom.” I closed the box carefully. “I’ll try it on later.”
“Great!
I can’t wait to see.” He kissed my cheek and headed to the bedroom to change.
Alright, I told myself. Let him think I’m playing along.
That night, I laid the uniform neatly across our bed. A plan was forming in my mind, and to execute it, I dug out my dusty college-era sewing kit from the back of the closet.
My husband was going to get a wake-up call he’d never forget!
I became a 1950s dream wife overnight.
I wore the dress religiously while making Derek breakfast before dawn, vacuuming in pearls I’d inherited from my grandmother, and scrubbing baseboards on my knees.
“See?
Doesn’t it just make everything more pleasant?” Derek beamed on the third morning, watching me flip pancakes while dressed in the full getup.
“Oh, absolutely,” I replied, my voice honey-sweet.
By day five, I wasn’t just playing house; I was performing it to the hilt.
And I’d finished sewing my very barbed and pointed protest.
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