The video quality was grainy, filmed on a camcorder that had seen better days, but the audio was crisp enough to ruin two lives for the next twenty years.
It was the Graduation Ceremony of the “Little Acorns Preschool,” Class of 2004. The air in the gymnasium smelled of floor wax and nervous sweat.
On screen, little Stacy, missing a front tooth and drowning in a navy blue polyester gown, stepped up to the microphone. She looked dead serious, like she was announcing a declaration of war.
“My name is Stacy,” she squeaked, “and when I grow up, I want to be a housewife.”
The crowd chuckled. It was 2004; it was a quaint, retro ambition. Stacy stepped back, looking pleased with her life plan.
Then came Jason. Jason had a bowl cut that defied gravity and a grin that spelled trouble. He grabbed the mic stand with both hands.
“My name is Jason,” he announced, his voice cracking with adrenaline, “and when I grow up, I want to make Stacy as my wife.”
The gym exploded. Parents howled. The cameraman (Jason’s dad) shook the camera because he was laughing so hard. In the background of the shot, Stacy turned to look at Jason with an expression of pure, unadulterated horror.
Chapter 1: The Cootie Wars
For the first five years following “The Declaration,” Jason and Stacy were mortal enemies.
The video was the weapon. Every Thanksgiving, every birthday, and eventually, every time their parents had too much wine at a dinner party, the tape came out.
“Look at the lovebirds!” Stacy’s mom would coo.
“I hate him,” Stacy would whisper, stabbing her mashed potatoes. “He eats paste.”
“I do not eat paste!” Jason would yell from the other end of the kids’ table. “It was one time in art class!”
“You’re not making me your wife,” Stacy informed him when they were seven. “I’m going to marry a monster truck driver named Blaze.”
“Fine,” Jason retorted. “I don’t want to marry you anyway. You smell like strawberry shampoo and bossiness.”
Realistically, the prophecy hung over them like a curse. In middle school, they avoided eye contact in the hallways. If they were assigned as lab partners, the tension was thick enough to cut with a scalpel. Jason was the class clown; Stacy was the student body treasurer who organized the recycling drive. They were oil and water, if the oil was annoying and the water had a color-coded day planner.
Chapter 2: The Reunion
They managed to avoid each other for most of college (different states, thankfully), but small-town gravity is a powerful force. At twenty-five, they both found themselves back in their hometown for the holidays.
They ran into each other at the only bar in town open on Christmas Eve.
Stacy looked tired. The “housewife” dream had died somewhere around sophomore year when she discovered she had a ruthless talent for corporate contract law. She was wearing a blazer that cost more than Jason’s car.
Jason looked… surprisingly good. The bowl cut was gone, replaced by a scruffy, rugged look. He was working as a landscape architect.
“Well,” Jason said, sliding onto the stool next to her. “If it isn’t the future housewife.”
Stacy groaned, burying her face in her hands. “If you mention that video, I will sue you. I’m a lawyer now. I know how to do it.”
“A lawyer? That’s a terrible housewife gig. Long hours. No time for dusting.”
“Shut up, Jason,” she laughed, despite herself. “And what about you? Still planning on ‘making me as your wife’?”
Jason took a sip of his beer, a playful glint in his eye. “I mean, I haven’t ruled it out. But the vetting process is stricter now. Can you cook?”
“I burned water last week.”
“Disappointing. How are you at laundry?”
“I buy new socks so I don’t have to match the old ones.”
Jason shook his head mockingly. “I don’t know, Stace. You’re really failing the interview.”
They talked for three hours. They talked until the bartender kicked them out. It turned out that the “bossy” girl and the “paste-eating” boy had actually grown into people who really, really liked each other.
Chapter 3: The Domestic Disaster
Dating was the easy part. The hard part was the irony.
Stacy was a workaholic. She lived on espresso and stress. Her apartment was clean only because she was never there.
Jason, on the other hand, was a nester. He loved to cook. He had strong opinions about thread counts. He color-coded his spice rack.
One rainy Tuesday, six months into dating, Stacy came home to Jason’s apartment. He was wearing an apron, listening to jazz, and stirring a risotto.
“You look exhausted,” Jason said, handing her a glass of wine. “Sit. I vacuumed the rug, so don’t spill.”
Stacy collapsed onto the sofa. “I hate my job,” she mumbled. “I hate contracts. I hate arguing.”
“You know,” Jason said, plating the food. “You could always retire.”
“And do what? Be a housewife?” Stacy snorted.
“Well,” Jason said, sitting down. “Technically, the prophecy didn’t specify whose house you’d be wifing in. But honestly? You’re terrible at domestic stuff. You nearly killed my fern yesterday by looking at it.”
“It’s true,” she admitted, taking a bite of the risotto. It was heavenly. “My God, Jason. You’re the housewife.”
Jason paused. He looked at the apron. He looked at the impeccably clean apartment. He looked at the dinner he had spent two hours preparing.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m the housewife.”
Chapter 4: The Prophecy Fulfilled (Sort of)
Three years later, the wedding invitation went out.
Stacy & Jason
Yes, finally. We know.
The reception was a rowdy affair. But when the speeches began, the room went silent. The projector screen descended.
“No,” Stacy whispered, gripping Jason’s hand at the head table. “They wouldn’t.”
“My dad definitely would,” Jason sighed.
The grainy footage played.
“My name is Stacy, and when I grow up, I want to be a housewife.”
“My name is Jason, and when I grow up, I want to make Stacy as my wife.”
The crowd roared just as loud as they had twenty-five years ago. Stacy hid her face in her napkin. Jason stood up and took the microphone, exactly the way he had when he was five.
“Okay, okay,” Jason said, silencing the room. “We all know the clip. But we need to issue a correction.”
He looked down at Stacy, who was smiling up at him, the high-powered attorney who hadn’t cooked a meal in four years.
“Stacy was half right,” Jason said. “She is a wife. But she is absolutely not a housewife. If she stays home for more than two days, she starts trying to reorganize my tool shed alphabetically.”
Laughter.
“And I,” Jason continued, “did make Stacy my wife. But as it turns out, in this relationship, I am the one who worries about the throw pillows.”
He raised his glass.
“So here’s to five-year-old us. They had the names right, but they really got the job descriptions mixed up.”
Stacy stood up, took the mic, and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Jason. Now, please, go finish your cake so we can go home. You promised to do the dishes.”
“Yes, dear,” Jason said, and the room erupted in applause.