The Perfect Wife
In a quiet market town nestled between shadowy pine forests and misty rolling hills, where the autumn wind whispered of change, life trudged along methodically, yet with a quiet undercurrent of longing. Even as a university student, Edward had vowed to marry a composed, even-tempered woman—one who would be the steady heart of their home. But in his youth, he found himself drawn to vivacious, loud girls who demanded bouquets, gifts, and trips to cafés. With a student’s meagre allowance, he quickly learned who was worth his time.
By graduation, Edward was dating Emily—intelligent, reserved, meticulous to a fault. The precision of her lecture notes and her crisply ironed blouses spoke volumes about her.
“Tom, it’s time to settle down,” he told his friend. “You’re already married, about to be a dad.”
“Finally!” Tom laughed. “Emily from my seminar, right? Marry her—she’s brilliant. Clever, beautiful, level-headed, no drama. Her notes look like they’ve been typeset—I cribbed half my degree off her!”
“Yeah, Emily,” Edward nodded. “Out of everyone I know, she’s the one.”
A week before graduation, Edward proposed, and she said yes.
Emily and her younger sister Lucy had grown up nearly parentless. Their father, a lorry driver, vanished on long hauls for months, while their mother worked late shifts. As the elder sister, Emily took charge—cooking, checking Lucy’s homework. Their mother never asked her to, but that was just Emily’s way.
Occasionally, they visited Aunt Margaret, their mother’s sister. Emily adored her pristine home—gleaming silver, hand-knitted doilies, hospital-grade cleanliness. “Like no one actually lives here,” she mused, unaware she’d inherited the same trait. At her own flat, she chased order, though it never quite matched her aunt’s perfection. Still, her notes, desk, and wardrobe were impeccable. At university, she aced every exam, her handwriting flawless, her appearance always neat.
After the wedding, Edward and Emily moved into his modest two-bedroom flat.
“Lucky git,” Tom teased good-naturedly. “Your own place, a stunner wife. Meanwhile, me and the missus are still renting a shoebox.”
Emily dreamed of crafting a flawless home like Aunt Margaret’s. She became obsessive—cleanliness her gospel. No one had taught her that family wasn’t just about polish but warmth, too. She’d learn that the hard way.
Edward was her opposite—boisterous, sociable, thriving on pub nights, fishing trips, wild camping. Emily, on the other hand, adored embroidery, novels, and the occasional knitting project. Before their son arrived, she grudgingly tolerated his nature excursions, though mosquitoes and damp tents held no charm.
One summer evening, Edward beamed with excitement.
“Em, tomorrow we’re off to the lake—tents, fishing rods, sausages over the fire. Pack up!”
“Edward, I can’t stand it out there,” she grimaced. “The bugs, the mud, the germs. What if I catch something?”
But she knew arguing was futile and went anyway. When her pregnancy advanced, she refused, and Edward didn’t push. Instead, she poured herself into homemaking—scrubbing, steaming vegetables, fluffing cushions.
“Emily, your place is like a show home!” gushed her friend Charlotte, an old classmate. “The perfect wife! How do you manage? My house is chaos—two boys wrecking everything. I daren’t bring them here, they’d smear jam on your walls!” She laughed. “My husband’s a saint, though—takes the kids to the park so I can breathe.”
Edward, impulsive and restless, sometimes pulled her into the bedroom midday, but she’d resist.
“The laundry’s not folded—it’ll crease!”
“Em, I don’t care if it’s pressed or not,” he’d grumble, tugging her close. “This flat’s like a bloody operating theatre. Sterile. Cold.”
“Don’t you like it clean?” she’d ask, baffled.
“I do. But you’ve gone overboard,” he’d murmur against her neck.
One winter morning, Edward announced, “Em, the lads are renting a cottage this weekend—hiking, pub, log fire. Fancy it? If the walks aren’t your thing, just curl up with a book. Proper countryside air—good for you.”
“Edward, I’m six months pregnant, and you want to drag me to the middle of nowhere? What if I catch a chill?”
“Christ, you’re such a killjoy,” he sighed. “Never want to do anything.”
After their son Oliver was born, Emily’s obsession with cleanliness deepened. Exhausted but relentless, she scrubbed, ironed, sanitised. When Oliver turned three, she returned to work, only to realise—she was pregnant again.
“Edward, I think I’m expecting,” she said softly.
“Docs tomorrow,” he replied, driving her to the clinic.
“Definitely!” she glowed, sliding back into the car.
“That smile says it all,” he chuckled, squeezing her hand.
When their daughter Sophie arrived, Emily drowned in sterility—bleach, steaming, lean meals. Edward snapped.
“Em, you’re like a bloody robot! Kids, cleaning, this cardboard you call food—is that all you care about? I’d kill for a proper fry-up!”
“Fried food’s toxic, especially for children,” she countered. “Be grateful I care about health.”
Their bickering sharpened. The spotless flat suffocated him.
“Let’s get away for a weekend,” he urged. “Rent a cabin by the lake.”
“What about the children?”
“Drop them at Mum’s. She adores them.”
“Your mum’s got three cats and a dog! Hair everywhere—it’s unhygienic!”
“For God’s sake, Emily, you’re insufferable! Other wives go on trips—you’re just…” He threw up his hands.
When Sophie started nursery, Emily felt the distance between them yawn. She couldn’t fathom why.
“Why don’t we talk anymore? Why do we share nothing?” she wondered. “I’m the perfect wife!”
One evening, she told Edward she was the best wife a man could ask for. He exploded.
“Perfect? You’re bloody miserable! You never go anywhere, just fuss over crumbs and vitamins!”
Edward began escaping with his friends while Emily stayed behind. She never imagined his loneliness would attract other women. Edward—tall, magnetic—drew glances effortlessly. Few noticed his wedding ring.
He grew close to Jessica, a friend of Tom’s wife. She joined their outings, slyly watching Edward. One lakeside weekend, she made her move. Their affair burned fast—wild, laughing, her fire a stark contrast to Emily’s frost. For nearly a year, it continued, Emily oblivious yet sensing the rift. Edward turned distant, barely helping with the kids, vanishing every weekend.
“Edward, we need to talk,” she said over supper. “I’m not happy.”
“Neither am I,” he said coolly. “Glad you started this. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Where?” she gasped.
“With someone else. It’s been going on. Thought you’d notice, but you’re too busy—” He waved at the immaculate kitchen. “Point is, I’m done.”
Emily froze. “How? I gave everything to this home!”
“Your sterile kingdom’s all yours,” he said. “But I need a wife who’s alive. Who laughs. You’re a great mum—just not enough for me.”
He left. Emily sat on the sofa, surveying her life. “What did I waste years on? Bleach? Steamed broccoli? I never saw him. Never listened. He’s right—I’m dull.”
Time passed. Emily adjusted to solitude. The children thrived—Edward took them weekends, to films, to the park. One day, she spotted him and Jessica at the mall, laughing, fingers entwined, her eyes alight. “She’s everything I’m not,” Emily thought. “My life’s empty.”
Later, Oliver mentioned, “Mum, Dad’s at Gran’s. Split with Jessica—said it didn’t work.”
“I didn’t know,” Emily murmured.
Then Sophie burst in: “Mum, Dad’s taking us fishing! All of us—even you! Please say yes!”
Emily almost snapped, “To feed midges?” But she caught herself. “No. I’ll go. I’m different now.”
“Alright, sweetheart,” she smiled.
“Yay! I’ll call Dad!” Sophie squealed.
The trip flew by in a haze. Emily loved it. That night, sleepless, she realised: “How wrong I was. Dawn over the lake, birdsong, tea by the fire…”
She saw all she’d sacrificed for sterility. They went mushroom picking, strolled through the park, licked melting ice creamAs the years unfolded, their love rekindled not in grand gestures but in shared laughter, muddy boots by the door, and the beautiful, imperfect mess of a life truly lived together.
