Yeah, that woman cannot stand me.
It all started 7 years ago, after my mom passed away from a cold that just wouldn’t go away. Before I knew it, my dad was seeing Carla, and a year later, he married her.
“Your father doesn’t waste any time, does he?” my aunt sniffed on the day of the wedding. “And who is Carla anyway? She’s nothing compared to your mom!”
Carla was fine at first. I mean, she tried hard to get me on her side. But slowly, the passive-aggressive jabs started piling up. I remember once, I caught her staring at me.
“You look too much like your mother, Emily,” she said. “It actually pains me to look at you. No wonder your father gives Mason more attention. He’s closer to Mason right now, isn’t he?”
I sighed and ignored her, trying not to let her words get to me.
My dad, of course, didn’t notice a thing. It was like he couldn’t—or just wouldn’t—see how Carla treated me. And she loved that. She loved being the only one ready to taunt me.
Anyway, fast forward to prom season. Like every other girl in my class, I was dreaming of the perfect night. I saved up enough babysitting money for months to buy a gorgeous violet dress.
I couldn’t help but wish that my mother was around to spend these moments with me.
But that’s why I chose the violet dress. It was her favorite color.
Prom was going to be my night. I just knew it.
Whenever I thought about it, I just felt like something magical was going to happen at prom. To make myself feel even better, I booked a hair appointment at a fancy salon. All my friends were going there too.
Everything was set.
But then the big day came, and Carla made sure to ruin it.
I went to the salon, all excited, but when I got there, the receptionist looked at me, confused.
“Emily? Are you sure?” she asked, looking at her computer screen. “Zelda told me that you canceled?”
“I didn’t!” I exclaimed. “Why would I? Prom is this evening!”
“Calm down, honey,” the receptionist said. “I’ll get Zelda.”
I waited impatiently while she went to get the hairdresser. Finally, they returned.
The hairdresser looked uncomfortable.
“I got a call earlier today saying that you wanted to cancel your appointment, Emily. I assumed that it was your Mom?”
My heart dropped. Canceled? How? I didn’t cancel it! What mom?
I was still processing everything when I looked over and saw her.
Carla.
Sitting there, getting her hair done. Of course.
She saw me and just smirked, her eyes cold as steel. Carla had canceled my appointment.
“Is there any way that you could still schedule me in?” I asked Zelda.
She shook her head sadly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “When your appointment was canceled, a woman called in and booked her own. All of our slots are taken. I’m sorry, honey.”
I stood there in shock. So, Carla had called pretending to be me? Pretending to be my mom? And then she took my appointment so that she could watch me be disappointed?
Sick.
I barely managed to keep it together as I ran out of the salon, my head spinning. I felt nauseous.
My perfect prom? It was just falling apart around me. By the time I got home, I locked myself in my room, tears pouring down my face.
I sat at my dressing table trying to fix my hair on my own, but nothing looked good. I felt stupid for telling Carla my plans in passing.
See what had happened?
I looked at my dress, hanging off a hanger.
I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to go to prom anymore.
I sat there, looking at my makeup sitting on my dressing table and wondered if it was even worth it. I mean, what was the point? I was already upset and didn’t feel like anything good was going to come from this.
Suddenly, I heard this loud honking outside. I ignored it at first, thinking it was just a random car.
A teenage girl’s dressing table | Source: Midjourney
A teenage girl’s dressing table | Source: Midjourney
But it didn’t stop.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and dragged myself to the window, fully expecting to see commotion on the road. But when I looked out, my jaw dropped.
A glossy black limousine was parked in front of our house.
I thought it was some sort of mistake. There was no way that the car was for me. My friends’ parents had said no when we first talked about it months ago. But still, I ran downstairs.
I stood at the doorway, waiting for something to happen. The driver stepped out and walked up to our front door. My dad, who had been as clueless as ever during all of this, stood on our porch, looking as confused as I felt.
“I’m here for Miss Emily, sir,” the driver said, holding out a small card.
Miss Emily? Me?
“She’s right here,” my dad said, nodding to me.
I hesitantly took the card from my dad’s hand and opened it. Inside, written in neat handwriting, were the words:
To my beautiful sister, Emily. I know you’ve had a rough time lately, but you deserve the best night ever! Enjoy the limo, and don’t worry about a thing. I’ve been saving all my birthday and Christmas money.
Have a magical night, sis.
Love, Mason.
Mason? My 11-year-old brother did this?
I burst into tears all over again, but this time from pure shock and gratitude. I ran upstairs to find Mason in his room, grinning like he’d just pulled off the ultimate prank.
“I heard Mom on the phone this morning,” he said, shrugging like this wasn’t a big deal. “I knew that it wasn’t fair at all.”
Turns out that he had overheard Carla canceling my hair appointment, and in true little brother fashion, took matters into his own hands.
“But did you really use your money?” I asked him, feeling horrible.
“Not really,” he grinned. “See, Mom has been saving up money to buy some fancy diamond necklace. She’s been showing Dad the necklace, hoping that he would get it for her. But he said no.”
Good for you, Dad, I thought.
“Anyway, after I heard her phone call, she left home. So, I took some of the money from her stash, and went to Mr. Johnson next door. He owns the limo company, remember?”
But Mason didn’t stop there.
“There’s more, Em,” he said. “Mrs. Evans, from across the road? Her daughter is a stylist at the mall. She’s coming here to do your hair and makeup soon.”
Just as the words left his mouth, the doorbell rang.
“That should be her!” Mason said. “Go wash your face, I’ll send her up.”
When did Mason grow up? I wondered as I did what he said.
Twenty minutes later, I went from crying in my bedroom to looking like a princess. I just wished my mom was around to fuss over me. To take endless photos and tell me how proud she was of me. I wanted a hug from her more than anything.
But still, Mason had saved prom!
When Carla drove into our driveway, I was already outside, stepping into the limo like a movie star. Her jaw dropped. And she got out of the car and just stood there, stunned.
Her face? Oh my God. I wish I had a picture of her expression. I would have stuck it on my mirror!
“Richard? Did you do this?” I heard her shriek to my father before the driver closed the door.
Moments later, the driver whisked me away.
Prom was everything I had hoped for. When I arrived at the hall in the limo, heads turned. I was glowing, and I knew it. For the first time in a long time, I felt like my mom was right there with me.
The whole night was pure magic. Dancing, laughing with my friends, and just forgetting all the drama at home.
As for Carla, I hope she learned a lesson. You can’t mess with someone’s joy and get away with it… especially if your son is going to come in and save the day!
What would you have done?
My husband hired someone to teach me how to clean and cook – he wasn’t pleased with how I got back at him
I was floored when my husband, Jeff, brought in a maid to “teach” me how to cook and clean like the ideal wife. Rather than push back, I played along. What Jeff didn’t see coming was the lesson I had in store for him — one that would turn his perfect plan topsy-turvy.
I’m Leighton, 32, juggling a full-time job, a chaotic household, and a 34-year-old husband who’s lately become an expert on what a “perfect wife” should be.
Jeff and I both work demanding jobs: he’s in finance, constantly stressed about quarterly reports, while I’m in marketing, which means my brain is fried by the time I get home. You’d think we’d cut each other some slack, but lately, Jeff’s expectations have been through the roof.
It all started after that infamous dinner at his boss Tom’s place. Tom’s wife, Susan, greeted us with this warm smile, wearing a perfectly pressed dress that probably cost more than my rent in college. Her house? Spotless. Not a speck of dust, not a misplaced throw pillow.
And don’t get me started on the five-course meal she whipped up as if she’d been born holding a spatula. Jeff couldn’t stop gawking.
“You see how Susan keeps everything in order? Dinner’s ready the minute Tom gets home,” Jeff had said on the drive back, his voice dripping with admiration. “You could take a few pointers.”
I bit my tongue, staring out the window to avoid rolling my eyes but Tom wasn’t done yet. “Why don’t you try a little harder? I mean, how difficult can it be to keep things clean when you get home before me?”
The comparisons didn’t stop. Every day was a new critique. “Susan keeps her house spotless. Susan has time to make fresh pasta from scratch. Susan always looks put together.”
He’d say this while tossing his dirty clothes two feet from the laundry basket or leaving his dishes right where he finished eating.
One evening, he came home and immediately started inspecting the house like some kind of drill sergeant. He ran his finger along the windowsill and frowned. “You missed a spot. Are you even trying?”
I glanced up from my laptop, barely containing my frustration. “Seriously, Jeff?”
He shrugged. “I’m just saying, maybe you could put in a little more effort. It’s not like you don’t have time.”
That was his new favorite line. Not like you don’t have time. As if my workday and commute weren’t as draining as his. But the final straw came one Friday night.
I walked in, dreaming of a hot shower and some rest, but instead, I found a young woman in our kitchen. She was holding a mop and wearing an apron, her eyes darting nervously around like she’d accidentally wandered into the wrong house.
Jeff stood beside her, arms crossed, with a self-satisfied grin. “Leighton, meet Marianne. She’s here to teach you how to clean and cook properly.”
I blinked, trying to process what I was hearing. “I’m sorry… teach me?”
Jeff sighed like he was talking to a stubborn child. “Yeah, honey. I’ve tried being patient, but clearly, you’re not getting it. Susan suggested I get someone to help you get up to speed. So, here we are.”
Marianne glanced at me, then at Jeff, and back at me. “I usually just… you know, clean houses,” she said softly, almost apologetic. “He offered me double if I’d show you how.”
I turned to Jeff, barely keeping my voice steady. “So, you’re paying her to teach me to clean and cook?”
He nodded, still oblivious. “Yeah. This way, you can get the hang of it properly. Marianne, don’t hold back.”
I wanted to scream. This man, who never lifted a finger, had the audacity to hire someone to teach me how to clean? I could see Marianne’s discomfort too, like she was dragged into some weird reality TV show.
I forced a smile, seething inside. “I’m sure I’ve got a lot to learn, Jeff. Thanks for looking out for me.”
Jeff left, pleased with himself, while Marianne looked like she was ready to bolt. I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Listen, I don’t need lessons. But I do have a little idea that could use some help. Are you game?”
Marianne’s face lit up, intrigued. “What do you have in mind?”
I smiled, already plotting. “Let’s just say Jeff’s about to learn a lesson of his own.”
Over the next few weeks, I gave Jeff exactly what he’d been asking for: the perfect housewife. Every day, I woke up early, made his breakfast, cleaned the house until it sparkled, and cooked elaborate dinners that looked straight out of a cooking show.
I even dressed up every evening, greeting him at the door with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.
But I was cold as ice. I didn’t nag or complain, but I also didn’t engage. No conversations about my day, no affectionate touches, not even a casual laugh. I became the picture of domestic perfection, but I was just going through the motions. It didn’t take long for Jeff to notice something was off.
“Hey, babe,” he said one evening, hovering at the kitchen door while I prepared a three-course meal. “You’ve been quiet lately. Is everything okay?”
I barely looked up, keeping my tone polite but distant. “I’m fine, Jeff. Just busy with the house, like you wanted.”
His brow furrowed. “You don’t have to be… this dedicated. I mean, it’s great, but it’s like you’re here, but you’re not.”
I shrugged, setting the table with precision. “I’m just focusing on what you asked me to do, Jeff.”
He nodded, but I could tell he was confused. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? A perfect house, perfect meals, perfect wife. But I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of my usual warmth, and it was starting to bother him.
As the days went on, I kept up my act. Every task was done flawlessly, but our relationship? It was as cold and mechanical as a well-rehearsed performance. I knew Jeff could feel the distance between us, but he didn’t know how to fix it. And I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
Then came the day I’d been planning for weeks. After a perfectly silent dinner, I cleared the plates and turned to him with a cheerful smile. “Jeff, we need to talk.”
He glanced up, a nervous smile twitching on his lips. “What’s up?”
I sat across from him, placing a neatly folded piece of paper on the table. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this whole ‘perfect housewife’ thing. Marianne really opened my eyes to how much work it takes to run a household like this. It’s a full-time job, honestly.”
Jeff frowned, not sure where I was going. “Uh, okay?”
“So, I’ve decided,” I continued brightly. “I’m going to quit my job and focus on this full-time.”
His jaw dropped. “You’re quitting your job?”
I nodded enthusiastically. “Yep! You wanted the house to be spotless, meals cooked from scratch, and everything just right. To do that, I need to dedicate all my time to it. But here’s the catch — I can’t do it for free.”
He blinked, baffled. “Wait, what do you mean ‘can’t do it for free?’”
I slid the paper toward him. It was a contract I’d typed up, outlining my new terms.
“If I’m giving up my career, I should be compensated. Susan doesn’t work, and Tom supports her. So, I’ll need you to pay me a salary. This is what I think is fair.”
He stared at me, his face turning from confused to outraged. “You want me to pay you? Leighton, this is absurd!”
I kept my tone sweet, but my words were laced with ice. “Oh, but it makes perfect sense. You wanted me to be a perfect wife, and I’ve been delivering. But perfection isn’t free, Jeff. If you expect me to maintain the household to your standards, I deserve compensation. And if you’re not willing to pay, that’s fine. I’ll just stop doing it.”
He gaped at me, the color draining from his face. “I never asked you to quit your job! I never wanted this.”
I leaned back, arms crossed, savoring every second. “Oh, but you did, Jeff. You wanted a house that looked like Susan’s, meals like hers, and a wife who dedicated herself entirely to domestic duties. I’m just doing exactly what you asked for. But I have my standards too, and if you want this level of dedication, it comes at a price.”
There was a long, tense silence. Jeff held the contract, his eyes fixated on the exorbitant salary. I could see the gears turning as he realized he’d dug himself into a hole he couldn’t easily climb out of.
Finally, he sputtered, “This isn’t what I meant! I work hard all day. I don’t have time to do everything around here!”
I stood up, keeping my voice calm but firm. “Exactly. And now you know what it feels like. If you’re not willing to pay me, maybe it’s time you start contributing more around the house. Or you could always hire Marianne full-time. She’s great, after all.”
I left him sitting there, flustered and speechless.
From that day on, Jeff’s attitude changed. He never agreed to pay me, of course, but he also stopped complaining. And suddenly, chores were no longer just my responsibility.
Jeff started picking up after himself, doing the laundry, and even cooking dinner a few nights a week. He never brought up Susan again, and I never saw him running a finger along the shelves in search of dust.
Turns out, when you give someone exactly what they think they want, they realize pretty quickly that the fantasy isn’t nearly as sweet as the reality. Jeff learned that the hard way, and I got the one thing I’d wanted all along: respect.
In the end, Jeff didn’t need a perfect wife; he needed a partner. And if it took hiring a maid and drawing up a fake contract to get there. Well, that was a lesson worth teaching.
What do you think?
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