The cream sheet in Linda’s purse looked like an anniversary speech until she unfolded it before 50 guests and began grading me as a wife. Sam whispered, “Just ignore it.” Ten minutes later, the same rules appeared in our party game, but Linda didn’t realize the final question wasn’t meant for me.
Our first anniversary dinner had been going beautifully until Linda reached for the microphone.
Sam saw her digging through her purse and groaned under his breath.
“Please don’t let that be another speech.”
I smiled. “Maybe she’ll keep this one under 20 minutes.”
He gave me a doubtful look.
“Please don’t let that be another speech.”
I’d known Linda came with opinions long before I married Sam.
She called him to ask what he’d eaten, whether he’d slept enough, once even whether the sweater he was wearing looked warm enough.
I’d known Linda came with opinions long before I married Sam.
“I know it’s a lot,” Sam had admitted when we were dating. “I’m her only son. I let her fuss.”
When she rose from her chair in her elegant dress and tapped the microphone, I wasn’t worried.
“I’m her only son. I let her fuss.”
“My dear Colleen,” she began, smiling at me from across the restaurant, “I wanted to give you something special on your first anniversary.”
Then Linda unfolded a sheet of cream paper.
“I call it…”
She paused dramatically.
“‘Ten Rules for Being the Perfect Wife for My Son.'”
“I wanted to give you something special on your first anniversary.”
A few people laughed.
I didn’t.
Sam slowly put down his glass.
“Mom.”
Linda waved him off.
“Oh, relax. It’s helpful advice.”
Then she began reading.
“Rule number one. Sam should come home to a homemade dinner, not something delivered in a cardboard box.”
“Rule number one. Sam should come home to a homemade dinner.”
A cousin near the back coughed into his napkin.
Linda continued.
“Rule number two. Iron Sam’s shirts properly and hang them in the closet. A husband shouldn’t have to search for something presentable before work.”
My face started getting hot.
“Rule number two. Iron Sam’s shirts properly and hang them in the closet.”
“Rule number three…”
Linda looked directly at me.
“Take care of your figure. Exercise, eat properly, and make an effort to stay attractive for your husband.”
The restaurant became painfully quiet.
Even the servers stopped moving for a second.
“Take care of your figure.”
Linda laughed as if she’d just told a charming joke.
I looked at Sam.
He leaned closer.
“Just ignore it.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Please. If we react, she’ll turn it into a whole scene. You know how Mom is.”
There it was.
“Please. If we react, she’ll turn it into a whole scene. You know how Mom is.”
Those words had followed me through our entire first year of marriage.
You know how Mom is.
When Linda showed up unannounced and rearranged my kitchen drawers.
You know how Mom is.
Those words had followed me through our entire first year of marriage.
When she inspected the takeout containers in our trash and asked Sam whether I ever cooked.
You know how Mom is.
When she walked into our laundry room, lifted one of Sam’s shirts, and said, “My son used to look much sharper before he got married.”
“My son used to look much sharper before he got married.”
Once, I heard her tell Sam, “You know, there are women who’d be happy to take better care of you.”
Sam told her to stop. I told myself that was enough.
And every time, I had swallowed my answer because Linda was widowed.
“You know, there are women who’d be happy to take better care of you.”
Sam was her only child, and I didn’t want to become the wife everybody blamed for dragging a son away from his mother.
So I had laughed.
Changed subjects.
Gone home furious.
Sam was her only child.
That night, Linda had graduated from criticizing me privately to giving me a public performance review.
And Sam still wanted me to absorb it quietly.
Linda glanced back at her list.
“Rule four…”
I stood.
Sam still wanted me to absorb it quietly.
Sam caught my wrist beneath the table.
“Colleen.”
I smiled at him.
“Relax.”
He looked terrified.
“Where are you going?”
“Bathroom.”
That wasn’t entirely true.
Our restaurant had already planned a silly anniversary game for after dinner called “How Well Do You Know the Couple?”
That wasn’t entirely true.
There were printed question cards, a microphone, and an emcee who had spent the first half of dinner teasing us about who snored and who forgot birthdays.
I found him near the service station.
“I need a favor.”
I found him near the service station.
He looked toward Linda, who was still reading.
“Does this involve that list?”
“Very much.”
Ten minutes later, I returned to my seat.
Linda was finishing.
“And rule ten. A good wife never embarrasses her husband in front of other people.”
“Does this involve that list?”
I nearly applauded.
Instead, I sat beside Sam.
He whispered, “You okay?”
“Wonderful.”
That worried him more.
Dessert arrived.
The anniversary game began.
The emcee stepped up with his cards.
“We’ve got a few bonus questions tonight, prepared by our happy couple.”
The anniversary game began.
Sam’s head snapped toward me.
“Colleen.”
I smiled sweetly.
“Your mother says I’m supposed to keep you happy.”
Someone at the next table snorted.
Linda actually beamed.
She thought I had accepted the joke.
Linda actually beamed.
The emcee lifted the first card.
“Linda’s first rule says a good wife should make her husband a homemade dinner.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
“Sam, name three homemade dinners you can make for Colleen.”
Sam froze.
“Sam, name three homemade dinners you can make for Colleen.”
I folded my hands.
He stared at the microphone.
“Three?”
“Three.”
“Eggs.”
I shook my head. “Breakfast.”
“Eggs can happen at night,” he said.
I smiled.
Sam pointed at me triumphantly.
“Pasta.”
“With sauce from a jar,” I added.
He stared at the microphone.
“Still pasta.”
“Two.”
He thought hard.
“Grilled chicken.”
I blinked.
“You’ve made grilled chicken?”
“Once.”
“You set off the smoke alarm.”
“It was technically cooked,” he said. “And three… pancakes.”
The emcee grinned.
“Good enough. Three.”
“You’ve made grilled chicken?”
I looked toward Linda.
“See? Homemade dinners matter. I agree. I just didn’t realize I was the only person in the marriage with access to the kitchen.”
The smile died on her lips.
Sam rubbed his forehead.
The smile died on her lips.
The emcee lifted the second card.
“Rule two. Colleen should iron Sam’s clothes so he always has something presentable.”
He turned toward my husband.
“Sam, do you know how to iron a shirt?”
“Yes.”
“Sam, do you know how to iron a shirt?”
I looked at him.
Linda looked pleased.
“Of course he does,” she said. “I taught him when he was 14.”
I turned slowly toward her.
“Then why did I inherit the job?”
Linda winced.
She had expected me to fail her test.
“I taught him when he was 14.”
She hadn’t expected the test to turn around.
“That’s different,” she said.
“How?”
“Because…”
She stopped.
The emcee wisely moved on.
“Final bonus question.”
The room settled.
He read more carefully this time.
“Rule three says Colleen should exercise and eat properly so she stays attractive for Sam.”
She hadn’t expected the test to turn around.
The emcee looked toward me.
I looked at my husband instead and asked the question. The look on his face was priceless.
“What’s your matching rule?”
Sam frowned. “My what?”
“The rule about how you need to exercise, eat, or look so you stay attractive for me.”
The look on his face was priceless.
His face fell.
“I don’t have one.”
I nodded. “Neither do I.”
Silence.
Not awkward this time.
Different.
Sam looked at his mother.
Linda was still holding that cream sheet.
For the first time all evening, she no longer seemed delighted by it.
“Neither do I.”
The emcee quietly set the cards down.
I thought the game was over.
Then Sam stood.
“Can I have the microphone?”
My hand stopped beside my glass.
I hadn’t planned this.
The emcee handed it over.
Sam looked at me first.
Then Linda.
“Can I have the microphone?”
“Mom, those aren’t my rules.”
Linda stared at him. Then at me.
“Sam, it was meant to be helpful,” she said.
“I know what you meant, Mom.”
“You’ve always liked a proper dinner, dear,” Linda said, her face full of worry.
“Can I have the microphone?”
“I also like tacos from the place near our house, Mom.”
Someone laughed nervously.
Linda went stone-faced.
“That’s not the point.”
Sam nodded. “You’re right.”
Then he said the thing I had waited almost a year to hear.
“I also like tacos from the place near our house, Mom.”
“You’ve been telling my wife what I supposedly need since we got married. I should’ve stopped you the first time.”
Linda went still.
“Sam…”
“No, Mom.”
He lowered the microphone slightly.
“I kept telling Colleen to ignore you because I thought ignoring it was the same as disagreeing with it.”
“I should’ve stopped you the first time.”
He glanced at me.
“It wasn’t.”
I looked down at my folded hands.
Linda looked around the room.
Fifty people suddenly became very interesting to her.
“You’ve embarrassed me enough.”
She dropped the list on the table and walked toward the patio doors.
“You’ve embarrassed me enough.”
I watched her go.
Sam took one step after her.
I touched his arm.
“Give me a minute.”
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
This time, he wasn’t avoiding anything.
He had already said what he needed to say.
Now Linda and I needed to speak without him between us.
This time, he wasn’t avoiding anything.
She stood outside with both hands gripping the patio railing.
The night air was cool.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Linda said, “You made me look ridiculous.”
“You made me look ridiculous.”
I leaned against the opposite railing.
“I used your rules.”
“You twisted them.”
“Then tell me what they mean when Sam has to follow them too.”
She turned.
“Marriage takes work, Colleen. Cooking for someone you love, keeping a clean home, trying to look nice… none of that is wrong.”
“Then tell me what they mean when Sam has to follow them too.”
“I never said it was.”
That stopped her.
She’d expected me to reject everything.
“If you enjoy cooking for someone, cook,” I said. “If you like ironing shirts, iron shirts. If you like keeping a spotless house, that’s fine.”
She’d expected me to reject everything.
“Then what was that circus inside?”
“Because you didn’t give me suggestions, Linda.”
I nodded toward the paper visible through the glass doors.
“You gave me rules… for being Sam’s wife.”
She crossed her arms.
“Some things are simply part of marriage.”
“Then what was that circus inside?”
“Whose marriage?”
“Any good marriage.”
There it was again.
Not her preference.
Not something she enjoyed.
A law.
I studied her.
“Who taught you that?”
Something changed in Linda’s face.
Tiny.
But immediate.
“Who taught you that?”
“What?”
“Who taught you that’s how a good wife behaves?”
She looked away.
I waited.
Linda was suddenly very interested in the parking lot.
“Your mother?” I asked.
“No.”
“Sam’s father?”
“Who taught you that’s how a good wife behaves?”
Her lips pressed together.
Then she said quietly, “My husband’s mother.”
I stared at her.
Linda gave one bitter laugh.
“Believe me, sweetheart.”
She looked back toward the cream paper lying on our anniversary table.
“My mother-in-law was worse.”
“Believe me, sweetheart.”
And suddenly, for the first time all night, I wasn’t wondering what rule Linda would throw at me next.
I was wondering who had written them on her first.
Linda stared through the glass doors.
I was wondering who had written them on her first.
“When I married Sam’s father, his mother gave me a notebook page full of advice. Dinner ready before he came home. Shirts pressed. House clean. Never argue where other people could hear.”
She laughed softly.
“I cried in the bathroom afterward.”
That stopped me.
“When I married Sam’s father, his mother gave me a notebook page full of advice.”
“But you followed it?” I cut in.
“Eventually.”
Linda rubbed her thumb against the railing.
“People started telling me what a wonderful wife I was. My husband was happy. Our home ran well. After enough years, I stopped remembering that those rules once made me furious.”
“People started telling me what a wonderful wife I was.”
I understood then.
My marriage wasn’t just different from hers.
To Linda, it challenged the explanation she’d built around 30 years of sacrifice.
“If I can order dinner and still love Sam,” I said, “that doesn’t mean you were wrong for cooking.”
To Linda, it challenged the explanation she’d built around 30 years of sacrifice.
She looked at me.
“If I hire somebody to clean, it doesn’t make all those years you cleaned your own house meaningless.”
Her eyes filled.
“But my marriage being different doesn’t make yours a mistake, Linda. And yours being good doesn’t make your rules mine.”
For once, she didn’t argue.
“My marriage being different doesn’t make yours a mistake.”
After a moment, she asked, “Why didn’t you ever tell me to stop?”
“I did.”
“Not like tonight.”
She had me there.
I had complained to Sam. Rolled my eyes. Avoided her calls.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me to stop?”
But I had also spent a year trying to protect him from having to draw a line with his own mother.
“I kept thinking Sam shouldn’t have to choose between us.”
Linda looked away for a second.
The patio door opened.
Sam stepped outside.
I had also spent a year trying to protect him from having to draw a line with his own mother.
“Maybe that was the problem,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Every time you said, ‘That’s just Mom,’ what I heard was, ‘You deal with it.'”
Sam lowered his eyes.
Linda immediately turned to him.
“Your father liked coming home to dinner.”
“He did.”
“Maybe that was the problem.”
“And clean shirts.”
“Probably.”
“He was happy.”
Sam stepped closer.
“I’m not saying he wasn’t, Mom.” He glanced at me. “But Colleen doesn’t have to make me happy the same way you made Dad happy.”
“But Colleen doesn’t have to make me happy the same way you made Dad happy.”
Linda looked wounded, but Sam kept going.
“And Colleen shouldn’t have spent a year getting better at ignoring you. I should’ve gotten better at answering you.”
That one silenced all three of us.
A few minutes later, we went back inside.
Linda looked wounded.
The list was still lying beside my cake plate.
I picked it up.
Linda groaned.
“Oh, please don’t start another game.”
“One question.”
She sighed dramatically.
“Fine.”
I handed her the paper.
“Pick one rule you actually think belongs in a good marriage.”
The list was still lying beside my cake plate.
Linda read silently.
Finally she tapped one near the bottom.
“‘Make sure your spouse feels cared for.'”
“Okay.”
I looked at Sam.
Then back at her.
“Does he have to do that too?”
Finally she tapped one near the bottom.
Linda stared at her son.
A long pause.
Then she nodded.
“Yes.”
I folded the paper once and handed it back.
“Keep that one.”
Later, as the last guests were leaving, Sam’s collar folded awkwardly beneath his jacket.
Linda saw it immediately.
“Keep that one.”
Her hand actually lifted.
Then stopped in midair.
She stared at the crooked collar like it had personally insulted her.
“It’s very crooked.”
Sam smiled.
“I’ll survive, Mom.”
“We’re all praying for him,” I teased.
“I’ll survive, Mom.”
Linda laughed and lowered her hand.
That tiny movement meant more to me than any apology could have.
Sam started carrying empty plates toward the restaurant staff.
Linda opened her mouth again.
Sam looked over.
She shut it.
That tiny movement meant more to me.
Then she reached the door, turned back, and smiled at us.
“Happy anniversary.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She pointed at Sam.
“And your collar is still crooked.”
Sam threw both hands up.
“GO HOME, MOM.”
Linda laughed all the way out the door.
And she never touched the collar.