It started as a harmless routine—once a month, my wife would dress up for her “girls-only dinners.” The tradition began just six months into our marriage, and she framed it as an essential way to stay connected with her friends.
“It’s important to have some girl time,” she said one evening as she adjusted her hair in the kitchen mirror. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” I replied, genuinely supportive. I liked that she had her own space and time to unwind. It felt healthy, normal even. While she went out, I would immerse myself in hobbies or movies she found intolerable. It was an arrangement that worked well—for a while.
Over the years, though, the dinners began to feel… off. Not because of the routine itself but the way she approached it. Her preparations seemed more elaborate than necessary.
“Isn’t that dress a bit much for nachos and margaritas?” I teased one evening as I watched her zip up a sleek black dress that hugged her figure.
She smirked in the mirror. “You don’t get it. Women like to dress up, even if it’s just for each other.”
She kissed me on the cheek, grabbed her clutch, and disappeared out the door, her heels clicking down the hallway. It was the same every month for five years. I didn’t think much of it—until last week, when a single text unraveled everything.
While she was at her “girls-only dinner,” my phone buzzed. Thinking it was a spam notification, I grabbed it absentmindedly. But the message stopped me cold.
“I know you don’t care about our traditional family dinners, but your wife’s little brother drew this for you.” The message was from my mother-in-law.
Traditional family dinners? That didn’t make sense. My wife had never mentioned any family gatherings. Ever. Attached to the text was a photo. At first glance, it seemed innocent enough—her little brother, Sam, holding a messy crayon drawing. But my attention wasn’t on Sam.
It was on the scene behind him.
There, at a long dining table, was my wife. She leaned slightly toward her dad, laughing at something he’d said. Her brothers were there too, pouring wine and helping kids with plates of food. The table was adorned with dishes that looked like they belonged at a Thanksgiving feast. My stomach twisted.
What the hell is this?
My wife had always downplayed her family dynamics. “We’re not big on traditions,” she’d said multiple times. And yet, here she was, right in the middle of an elaborate family dinner.
