The next morning, my alarm screamed at 4:55 AM. I didn’t hit snooze. I flipped on every light in the bedroom. “RISE AND SHINE!” I chirped. Jake groaned, pulling the pillow over his head. “It’s dark out…”
“Steve says a good wife starts early!” I slammed drawers, finding my gym gear. I went downstairs and started the “gourmet breakfast.” I chose a recipe that required a blender. At 5:15 AM. The noise shook the walls.
Jake stumbled down, eyes red. “Why is it so loud?” “Making your smoothie! From scratch!”
Then I left for the gym. “Oh, by the way,” I said at the door. “Since I’m at the gym for an hour, you’ll need to get the kids up, fed, and to the bus. It’s not on my schedule anymore.” I left him panic-stricken in his boxers.
When I got home, I didn’t stop. I “cleaned” while he tried to watch TVāvacuuming right by his feet. I ironed shirts during his gaming time, blocking the screen.
By Thursday, he was a zombie. Friday night was the kicker. Steve came over. I served homemade appetizers, looking pristine but exhausted. Steve laughed. “See? I told you she just needed structure.”
Jake looked at Steve. Then at me. Then at the sink full of “gourmet” dirty dishes I hadn’t touched because “cleaning time” was over at 8 AM. Jake stood up. He walked to the fridge, ripped the paper down, and shredded it. “Get out, Steve,” Jake said. “What?” “I said get out. I don’t want a maid. I want my wife back.”
After Steve left, Jake hugged me. “I’m an idiot. Pizza?” “Pepperoni,” I said. “And you’re doing the dishes.”
