When Eric proposed to me during our yearly fall getaway at the cabin, I thought I was saying yes to a lifetime of love — not to a strange family ritual that would make me question everything.
We’d been together for three easy, joy-filled years — sharing inside jokes over terrible TV shows, planning picnics, sipping coffee from our matching “Boss” mugs. Life with him felt effortless.
So when we decided to host an engagement dinner for his family, I wanted it to be perfect. I cooked, cleaned, printed custom menus — anything to make a good impression. The evening was going smoothly until his mother, Martha, stood after dessert and said, “You can only marry my son if you pass the family wife test.”
I laughed, assuming she was joking. She wasn’t.
Martha pulled out a handwritten list of tasks: prepare a three-course meal without a recipe, deep-clean an entire house, fold laundry “properly,” set a formal table, and host a tea party — all while keeping a smile on my face. She said every woman in the family had done it. I sat there speechless.
Eric just shrugged and said, “Come on, babe, it’s tradition,” even handing me their so-called “family dust cloth.” That was it for me. I quietly ended the dinner, went home, and packed my bags. Eric begged me to reconsider, but he hadn’t stood up for me — and that told me everything I needed to know.