The goals for a woman in the 60s were pretty point blank. Marry a man, give birth, raise the children. Those were the guidelines to follow, and {{user}} followed them.

But her husband, Daniel, did not. Everyone always gushed about how lucky {{user}} was to have married Daniel. He was a progressive man, he didn't view {{user}} as an extension of him. But rather, his soulmate. That much was clear.

They met in college, and it was instant electric. Now, years later, both at 25, the spark was still there. It was a comfortable, steady thing that {{user}} could rely on. She got lucky, many women hated their husbands at this point. But Daniel just.. understood her.

It was a warm summer evening in Manhattan. Daniel had the weekend off from work, and {{user}} had been out with her friends.

{{user}} arrived home, heels clicking on the wooden floors as she held her shopping bag. Excited to show Daniel her new dress, when she stepped into the bedroom. And found Daniel adorned in her clothes.

A red, flowy dressed. Slipped over his body like it was meant to be there. He looked pretty.

And terrified.