I Don't Want To Be Duke's Adopted Daughter In Law
Okay, so, can we just talk about this for a sec? Like, seriously. I've been having this… thought. A rather persistent one, actually. It’s about this whole “adopted daughter-in-law” thing. And, let me tell you, it’s not exactly filling me with glee. Not even a tiny bit. More like a mild sense of dread, if I'm being honest. Like finding out your favorite snack has been discontinued. Or discovering you’ve accidentally worn mismatched socks to an important meeting. You know that feeling?
So, the scenario. Imagine it. You’re happily chugging along, living your best life, maybe scrolling through TikTok, maybe trying to figure out how to assemble IKEA furniture without crying. And then, bam! Someone, somewhere, decides you’re the perfect candidate to be the adopted daughter-in-law of… well, of a Duke. A real, live, possibly tiara-wearing, corgi-owning Duke. Can you even picture it?
I mean, the sheer gravity of it. The titles alone! “Your Grace.” “Duchess So-and-So.” It’s enough to make your brain do a little somersault. And not in a good, cartwheeling-through-a-field-of-sunflowers way. More in a “did I leave the oven on?” kind of panicked somersault. My brain is not built for that level of formality, you guys. My brain is built for remembering song lyrics from the 90s and where I put my keys. Usually not in that order, either.
Let’s break it down. What does being an adopted daughter-in-law to a Duke even entail? Is there, like, a handbook? A secret society orientation? Do they give you a crash course in curtsying? Because I’m pretty sure my curtsy currently resembles a startled flamingo trying to land on one leg. Not exactly regal, is it?
And the family! Oh, the family. I imagine it’s not just a simple, “Oh, hey, welcome to the family, here’s some casserole.” No, no, no. This is Duke family. I’m picturing stern portraits lining the hallways. Ancestors with disapproving stares. Whispers in hushed tones about lineage and heirlooms. Do they have a family crest? Probably. A very ornate one, with a lion or something equally terrifying. I’d probably accidentally spill tea on it within the first five minutes.
My own family? We’re more of a mismatched sock, slightly chaotic, loud laughter, “who ate the last cookie?” kind of family. And I love that. It’s my comfort zone. It’s my everything. Imagine the clash! My Aunt Carol, bless her heart, with her booming laugh and her questionable fashion choices, trying to navigate a formal afternoon tea at the Duke’s estate. It would be a cultural earthquake, that’s what it would be. A beautiful, hilarious, possibly disastrous earthquake.
And the expectations! Oh, the expectations. As an adopted daughter-in-law of a Duke, you’re probably expected to be… I don’t know, perfect. Flawless. Always poised. Always impeccably dressed. Never a hair out of place. Never a foot out of line. I trip over air, people. I walk into doorframes. Sometimes I forget to wear pants in the morning (okay, maybe that last one is a slight exaggeration, but not by much!).
My idea of dressing up involves finding a clean pair of jeans and a top that doesn’t have a questionable stain on it. The Duke’s world? I’m guessing it’s more along the lines of silk gowns, elaborate hairstyles, and jewels that could fund a small nation. My jewelry collection consists of a silver ring I got from a vending machine and a friendship bracelet I made in middle school. Not exactly dukedom-worthy, you know?
And the etiquette! Can we talk about etiquette? I’m pretty sure my table manners are a work in progress. I’m a big fan of the “eat with enthusiasm” approach. Is there a Duke-approved method for tackling a seven-course meal that doesn't involve elbowing your neighbor or accidentally inhaling a pea? Because I’m not sure I possess those skills. I’m more of a “fork and knife, please” kind of gal. With maybe a little bit of enthusiastic slurping when no one’s looking.
Then there’s the son. The Duke’s son. Presumably, he's also part of this whole equation. What’s he like? Is he a brooding, misunderstood poet? A charming rogue with a hidden heart of gold? Or is he just… a Duke’s son? With all the responsibilities and expectations that come with it? And would he even want an adopted daughter-in-law who accidentally wears her pajamas to a state dinner? Probably not. He’d be too busy polishing his family silverware or something equally… ducal.
And what about my own aspirations? My dreams? Do they suddenly get relegated to a dusty attic, alongside moth-eaten tapestries and portraits of stern-faced ancestors? I’m pretty sure I have things I want to do. Things I want to learn. Maybe I want to learn to knit. Or start a small business selling artisanal dog treats. Or finally master that sourdough starter that’s been taunting me for weeks. None of that screams “future Duchess,” does it?
It just feels… confining. Like being shoved into a perfectly tailored, but ridiculously uncomfortable, ball gown. It’s beautiful, yes. But can you breathe in it? Can you move? Can you spontaneously break out into a ridiculous dance because you’re just feeling joyful? Probably not. And I’m all about spontaneous joy, people! It’s my fuel. It’s my raison d'être.
And let’s not forget the public scrutiny. Imagine the headlines! “Duke’s New Adopted Daughter-in-Law Makes Shocking Fashion Faux Pas!” Or, “Is Duchess-to-Be Really Up to the Task?” I’d be under a microscope, all the time. Every outfit, every word, every awkward smile. My life would become a reality show, and not a fun one with challenges and prize money. More like a documentary about the slow disintegration of a normal person under immense pressure.
I like my life. I like its imperfections. I like the freedom to be a little bit messy, a little bit silly, and a whole lot of myself. I like being able to wear sweatpants on a Tuesday without someone tut-tutting. I like being able to speak my mind, even if it’s not always the most eloquent or sophisticated thing to say. That’s where the real me is. Not hidden behind a tiara or a stern pronouncement from on high.
So, to the hypothetical Duke, and his hypothetical son, and his hypothetical noble lineage: thank you, but no thank you. I’m quite content with my current level of awesome. I don’t need a dukedom to validate me. I don’t need a fancy title to feel important. My importance comes from within, and from the love of the people who actually know me, and embrace my glorious, imperfect self.
Maybe I’ll visit a castle someday. As a tourist. With a selfie stick. And maybe I’ll even try a proper curtsy then, just for the photo op. But to be part of that world, to be adopted into it? It just doesn’t feel like my cup of tea. And I’m pretty sure the Duke’s tea is served in tiny, delicate cups, and you’re supposed to hold the saucer just so. My tea habits involve a giant mug and a liberal amount of milk. So, you see? We’re just not compatible. It’s for the best, really.
It’s like trying to force a square peg into a round hole, but the square peg is made of glitter and enthusiasm, and the round hole is made of mahogany and hushed tones. It’s just not going to work. And honestly, I’d rather be out there, being my glittery, enthusiastic self, wherever that takes me. Which is probably not a ballroom filled with aristocrats. More likely a quirky bookstore or a lively pub. Somewhere I can actually breathe, you know?
So yeah. No Duke adoption for me. I’m happy being the daughter-in-law (eventual, hopefully!) of whoever loves me for me. For the person who spills tea, forgets to wear pants sometimes, and can still remember all the words to “Wonderwall.” That’s a pretty good deal, if you ask me. A much better deal, frankly, than being some Duke’s adopted daughter-in-law.
Think about it. The pressure! The weight of history! The endless parade of stuffy relatives! No, thank you. I’ll take my comfortable jeans and my messy bun and my slightly-too-loud laughter any day of the week. It’s a much more authentic existence, don’t you think? A more joyful one. And ultimately, isn’t that what really matters? Being genuinely happy and being your true self? I think so. And that’s a title no Duke can bestow.