It was a small box, tied with a red ribbon, beautifully placed next to an empty plate. No trace of food smell, no pan on the stove, no sign of the “ideal wife” from his program. Jake looked confused at the package, then at me.
— What is this? he asked.
— The first step of my new program, I said with a smile.
He untied the ribbon and found inside… his own program. Nicely printed, even laminated. I named it: “Jake – The Perfect Husband in 10 Steps.”
First point: Waking up at 4:30 AM for meditation and introspection, followed by making coffee for his wife, with the perfect foam, just like in a café.
Second: Foot massage after his wife comes back from the gym.
Third: Weekly shopping without ever forgetting the pads or Lisa’s favorite cheese.
Jake started reading faster, flipping through the pages, each with more absurd and amusing requirements.
At point six it said: Mandatory folk dance night in the living room, with music from Subcarpați or Fanfara Ciocârlia, to not forget cultural roots.
In the end, a bonus paragraph, written in bold letters: If the husband refuses any point from the program, he will be forced to wash the windows, the fence, and the old bike from the basement, with a toothbrush.
Jake looked up and said to me:
— Are you serious?
— As serious as you were when you gave me that list. Now we are equal, right?
He sighed and tried to smile. But I knew it stung him.
For a few days, the atmosphere was quiet but tense. I went about my business, no longer setting the table, no longer cleaning up after him. I stopped washing his shirts, I didn’t iron anything. He started to notice.
One evening, I found him in the kitchen, cooking pasta. It smelled of fried onions and garlic, and he was wearing my polka-dotted apron. I laughed.
— I don’t know how you managed to do all this without losing your cool, he said, splattered with sauce on his collar.
— I don’t have a mustache, but I have patience, I replied, smiling.
The next day he brought me flowers. Not cliché red roses, but a bouquet of wildflowers, with daisies and cornflowers. “Like in grandma’s garden,” he told me.
And for the first time in a long time, I saw sincerity in his eyes.
Not Steve, not ideas written by men who have never had a long-term relationship. Just him. Jake. The man I had fallen in love with.
He tore that list of my program in half, then into quarters. He made it into small pieces, so the idea of dictating my life would never cross his mind again.
— You can be the perfect wife, he told me, but only if I am the man who deserves that.
And that evening, instead of guests and snacks, we had a simple meal of polenta, sheep cheese, and red onion. We held hands, laughed, and finally understood that in love there is no room for imposed plans, only for mutual respect.
That’s how we started to write our own program. No points. No rules. Just love.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or for how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
