My fiancé’s wealthy parents had a very specific image of their ideal daughter-in-law: someone who stayed home, cooked gourmet meals, and kept the mansion spotless. They couldn’t stand that I earned more than their beloved son—said it bruised his ego. So, they asked me to quit my job after we married. I said yes—on one condition. They were not ready for it.
I’m Abbie. I’m 27, make $170K a year, and absolutely love what I do. Tim, my fiancé, teaches third grade—not for the paycheck, but because he loves making a difference in kids’ lives. He also happens to come from a long line of serious wealth.
That doesn’t bother me. But last Friday, surrounded by $30,000 rugs and cutlery engraved with family initials, Tim’s parents decided my career was negotiable.
We were supposed to be having a casual Fourth of July dinner. I wore a breezy sundress, brought a good bottle of red, and mentally prepped myself for wedding small talk.
But as champagne fizzled on my tongue, I found myself sitting across from Tim’s parents in their museum-like dining room—oil portraits staring down, crystal chandeliers casting dramatic shadows.
“Abbie, darling,” began Michelle, my future mother-in-law, with that syrupy tone rich women use when they’re about to say something appalling, “we’ve been wanting to talk about your… situation.”
I set my fork down. “My situation?”
Arnold, Tim’s father, adjusted his gold cufflinks. “Your career. Once you’re married, you’ll stay home. That’s the expectation.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
Tim didn’t say a word. Just stared at his plate.
“We believe a husband should be the provider,” Michelle continued. “You earning more than Tim throws things out of balance. It’s not what a marriage should look like.”
I looked at her, then at Arnold. “And what should it look like?”
“A marriage needs defined roles,” Arnold said, slicing his steak. “It’s emasculating when a wife earns more. People notice.”
“Which people?”
“Our people!” they chimed in unison.
I turned to Tim, waiting—hoping—for him to speak up. But he just nudged his food like it might turn into a defense for him.
“Tim?”
He finally looked up, cheeks red. “They’re not wrong, Abbie. Maybe taking a step back would be… good.”
“Good how?”
Michelle beamed. “You could redo the guest house! Organize charity galas! Start a family, of course.”
“Right. Or I could also eradicate disease or end poverty.” I narrowed my eyes. “But that’s not really what this is about, is it?”
Arnold stiffened. “There’s no need to be rude, young lady.”
“Young lady?” I stood so fast my chair screeched against the floor…