When Eric proposed to me at our favorite cabin, I thought I’d found my forever. We’d shared three beautiful years together—lazy Sunday picnics, matching coffee mugs, endless laughter. But everything I believed about our love unraveled during one bizarre engagement dinner.
Eric’s traditional family came over to celebrate. I worked tirelessly to host, hoping to be embraced by the people I’d soon call family. But after dessert, his mother stood up and announced I could only marry Eric if I passed their “wife test”—a list of domestic chores and rituals designed to prove I was “worthy.”
I expected Eric to step in. Instead, he handed me their symbolic dust cloth.
That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t marrying just Eric, I was marrying into a system that demanded submission. So I ended the dinner. I left our apartment. I moved in with my best friend and ignored Eric’s apologies.
Days later, his mother called, claiming the test was tradition. But I wasn’t interested in tradition—I wanted respect. I told her, “Traditions evolve. Or they die.”
Eric remained silent when it mattered most. He loved me, but not enough to challenge what needed challenging.
I still haven’t decided if the wedding is off. But I know this: I’ll never scrub floors to earn love. If Eric wants a life with me, he’ll have to break the cycle—for good. If he can’t?
Then I’ll walk away, clean floors and all.
