On our wedding night, my husband threw a dish rag at me, claiming chores were mine.

That night, I hung up my wedding dress and lay awake, replaying everything I had ignored—his comments about “traditional wives,” his irritation when I worked late, the way he always called it his house.

By morning, the hurt had turned into clarity.

And when Ethan handed me a yellow legal pad titled House Rules, I knew the night before had just been the beginning.

There were twenty-three rules.

Dinner ready by 6:30. Laundry done his way. My job not interfering with the home. No spending without approval.