It was supposed to be our fresh start. Our dream. We’d spent months, years even, saving for this house, this quiet little sanctuary away from the city’s roar. Every box unpacked felt like another brick in our future, another promise whispered into the freshly painted walls. He was so loving, so attentive. Always holding my hand, his eyes full of that familiar warmth that made my stomach flutter even after all this time. I truly believed we were building something beautiful, something unbreakable.
A week. Just seven days after we lugged the last box inside, after we toasted champagne in an empty living room, surrounded by the ghosts of our yet-to-be-made memories, everything changed.
He called me into the bedroom, his voice soft, almost conspiratorial. My heart swelled, thinking it was a surprise romantic gesture. Maybe a weekend getaway booked, or a piece of art for our bare walls. He was holding a neatly folded package, wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a delicate ribbon. My smile was wide, genuine.
Lisa addressing a room full of guests | Source: Midjourney
“For you,” he said, pressing it into my hands. “A special housewarming gift.”
I untied the ribbon, carefully peeling back the paper. Inside was a dress. A crisp, light blue linen dress, with a modest collar and small, pearl buttons down the front. It came with a matching white apron, starched and stiff, and a pair of sensible, low-heeled canvas shoes. My smile faltered. It was… unexpected.
“What is it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light, a nervous laugh catching in my throat.
He beamed. “It’s your house uniform, darling! Now that we’re settling in, I thought it would be lovely to have you look the part. Clean, elegant, always ready for whatever the day brings.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “For entertaining, for relaxing. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
My stomach clenched. A house uniform? The words felt heavy, foreign. This wasn’t an elegant nightgown or a cozy robe. This was… a uniform. It felt like something out of another era, a costume, not an expression of love. But he was so enthusiastic, his eyes so bright. I didn’t want to hurt him. I forced a smile, thanked him, and promised to try it on later.
Later never really came, not that day anyway. I hung it in the back of the closet, telling myself I’d wear it eventually, maybe on a quiet Sunday. But every time I looked at it, a cold knot formed in my chest. It felt less like a gift and more like… a suggestion.
James stepping forward to support Lisa during the confrontation | Source: Pexels
He started asking. Subtly at first. “Didn’t you like the uniform, my love? I spent ages finding just the right shade of blue.” Then, less subtly. “You know, that linen is so comfortable. You should really give it a try. It would look so fetching on you, bustling around the kitchen.”
The pressure mounted. He’d make comments if I was still in my pajamas past nine, or if I put on jeans to go to the grocery store. “Wouldn’t the uniform be more appropriate for tending to the garden?” he’d ask, his voice dripping with mild disappointment. I started to feel like I was failing him, failing us. So, one morning, I put it on.
It was exactly as uncomfortable as I’d imagined. Stiff, restrictive, and utterly unlike anything I’d ever chosen to wear. But when he saw me, his face lit up. He actually clapped his hands together. “THERE she is! My beautiful wife, just as I always envisioned you.”
My beautiful wife. Just as I always envisioned you. Those words echoed in my head, unsettling me. He didn’t say, “Just as you are.” He said, “Just as I envisioned you.”
From that day on, the uniform became my default. I still wore my own clothes outside the house, but the moment I stepped back across the threshold, I changed. It was easier than dealing with his quiet displeasure, his deflated sighs. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t a big deal. It’s just a dress, right? It’s not hurting anyone. But slowly, insidiously, I started to feel like a different person. Less me, more… a character in his play.
He started critiquing other things. My hair, “It would be so much neater tied back, wouldn’t it, darling?” My makeup, “A bit too much lipstick for a relaxed evening at home, don’t you think?” My hobbies, “Do you really need to spend so much time on that novel when there’s so much to be done around the house?”
Linda and her family packing their bags and leaving the house
I found myself shrinking, my vibrant personality dulling. I stopped laughing as loudly, stopped telling my wild stories. I just… existed, in my blue linen dress and white apron, catering to his every need, anticipating his every desire. I felt like a ghost in my own home, in my own skin.
One afternoon, a few months into this new routine, I was dusting in his study. He was out running errands. It was a chore I usually avoided, but I was restless, the silence of the house pressing down on me. I ran my cloth over a large, ornate wooden chest he kept locked. He always said it contained old family documents, things too precious to risk. I never questioned it.
But this time, as my hand brushed against the lid, I noticed something. The lock wasn’t quite flush. A tiny sliver of metal, barely visible, protruded from the keyhole. Curiosity, a feeling I hadn’t indulged in weeks, sparked inside me. My heart thumped against my ribs. I knew it was wrong, a violation, but something compelled me. I had to know.
I found a bobby pin on his desk, bent it, and after a few fumbling attempts, the lock clicked. It opened with a soft groan.
Inside, nestled amongst yellowed papers and old photo albums, was another dress. The exact same blue linen uniform. But this one was clearly worn, faded around the collar, with a faint, almost invisible stain on the apron. And next to it, tucked under a small stack of letters, was a photograph.
My breath hitched. My vision blurred.
It wasn’t a family portrait. It was a woman. She was smiling, her hair tied back neatly, wearing… the exact same uniform I was wearing right now. Even the small pearl buttons, the sensible canvas shoes. Her smile was sweet, almost melancholic. But it wasn’t her face that made me gasp.
It was mine.
James and Lisa sitting together in the living room, talking | Source: Pexels
No, not mine. Not quite. But it was uncannily similar. The same shade of blonde hair, though hers was styled slightly differently. The same high cheekbones. The same curve of the lips. We could have been sisters. Doppelgangers.
Beneath the photo, a single, handwritten note. The elegant script was undeniably his.
“My darling Anne. This new one is almost perfect. I just need to get her hair right. She doesn’t laugh like you did, but she’s learning to be quiet. She almost fits your clothes.”
ANNE.
MY NAME IS NOT ANNE.
The chest held more photos. More letters. Each one spoke of Anne. Anne, who cooked his favorite meals. Anne, who kept the house spotless. Anne, who was always so beautiful in her uniform. Anne, who, from the context of the letters, had left him. Or disappeared. He never said. He only wrote about how much he missed her, how he would find her again, in someone else.
My hands trembled so violently I dropped the photo. The dress. The uniform. The quiet house. The way he looked at me, not me, but through me. The subtle criticisms, the molding, the shaping. It wasn’t a fresh start. It was a recreation. I wasn’t his love. I was a stand-in. A replacement. A doll. A second chance for him to perfect his ideal wife. Anne.
I looked down at the blue linen uniform I was wearing, the apron tied neatly around my waist. Then back at the faded uniform in the chest. My blood ran cold.
Lisa and James clean up the house together | Source: Pexels
I was not his wife. I was his project. And the uniform was just the first step in disappearing into someone else’s ghost.
