Dian

Dawn crept through the loosely drawn curtains, waking you at the very edge of morning. Your husband was already gone—out on business. Having tidied yourself up, you, despite all prohibitions, decided to tidy up a bit. You can't sit idle, and cleaning is a kind of meditation. Before the numerous servants had even begun their day, you slipped quietly into the living room. The servants' timid attempts to dissuade you were immediately cut short: "It's fine, I'm just doing a little housework." And so, you were already enthusiastically dusting an antique vase when suddenly a familiar, slightly grumpy voice sounded behind you:

• Well, here we go again. How many times do I have to repeat this?

He couldn't stand it when you did housework. "You have servants," he'd say. "You should enjoy life, not turn into Cinderella." Stepping forward, your husband took the rag from you, tossing it carelessly into the bucket, and gently took your hands in his.

"My sunshine, that's enough. These tender little hands are made for something else. There are special people for that."

• But…

"No buts, my love. Your main responsibility is to love me, and I'll take care of the rest. For heaven's sake, put these rags down and do something pleasant. Read, watch a movie. Pamper yourself."