**The Perfect Wife**
In a small town nestled between shadowy pine forests and misty hills, where the autumn breeze whispered of change, life moved at its own quiet pace, tinged with an unspoken melancholy. Back in his university days, Thomas had vowed to marry a calm, steady woman—the kind who’d be the heart of their home. But youth had pulled him towards lively, demanding girls who expected flowers, gifts, and café dates. A student’s income was tight, and he quickly learned who was worth it.
By graduation, he was dating Eleanor—reserved, sharp, meticulous. Her immaculate notes and pressed skirts revealed her nature. *”James,”* he’d say to his friend, *”it’s time to marry. You’re settled already, soon to be a dad.”*
*”About time!”* James laughed. *”Marrying Eleanor from my study group? Do it—she’s brilliant. Clever, pretty, level-headed. Her notes look typeset—I copied half my essays from her!”*
*”Yes, Eleanor,”* Thomas nodded. *”Out of everyone, she’s the one.”*
Before their graduation ball, he proposed, and she accepted.
Eleanor and her younger sister, Charlotte, grew up largely parentless. Their lorry-driver father was away for months, and their mother worked late. As she grew older, Eleanor took charge—cooking dinners, checking Charlotte’s homework. No one made her; it was just who she was.
Occasionally, they visited Aunt Margaret, their mother’s elder sister. Eleanor adored her spotless house—gleaming silver, crocheted lace, floors you could eat off. *”Like no one even lives here,”* she’d muse, unaware she’d inherited the same instincts. At home, she strived for order, though it never quite matched. But her lecture notes, her desk, her wardrobe—flawless. At university, she aced every exam, always perfectly turned out.
After the wedding, they moved into Thomas’s modest two-bedroom flat.
*”Landed well, mate,”* James said, grinning. *”Your own place, a stunning wife. Me? Renting a shoebox with mine—no hope of a mortgage yet.”*
Eleanor dreamed of a home like Aunt Margaret’s. She grew fastidious—cleanliness was her creed. No one taught her that family wasn’t just about polished surfaces but tending to hearts. She’d learn that the hard way.
Thomas was her opposite—boisterous, sociable, happiest with friends, fishing trips, hikes. Eleanor preferred cross-stitch, books, the occasional knitting. Before their son was born, she endured his camping invitations, though mosquitoes and mud held no charm.
One summer evening, Thomas beamed. *”Ellie, we’re off to the lake tomorrow—tents, barbecue. Pack up!”*
*”Thomas, I *loathe* camping,”* she grimaced. *”Bugs, dirt—it’s unsanitary. What if I catch something?”*
But she went, knowing he wouldn’t budge. By her third trimester, she refused, and he didn’t press her. Instead, she poured herself into their home—scrubbing, steaming, fussing over organic meals.
*”Eleanor, your flat’s like a showroom!”* marveled her uni friend Sophie. *”The perfect wife! How d’you manage? My house is carnage—my boys wreck everything. I *never* bring them here.”* She laughed. *”But my husband’s a gem—gives me a break, takes the kids so I can visit you.”*
Thomas, impulsive and tactile, sometimes tugged her to bed in daylight. She resisted. *”The sheets aren’t ironed yet—they’ll crease!”*
*”Ellie, I don’t care if they’re crumpled,”* he’d grumble, pulling her close. *”This place is like a bloody hospital. Sterile.”*
*”You don’t *like* it clean?”* she’d frown.
*”I do—but you’ve crossed into madness.”*
One December morning, he announced: *”Ellie, the lads are off to a cottage—fireplace, hot toddies, maybe a pub quiz. Fancy it? If you hate the cold, just huddle inside—good for the baby.”*
*”I’m six months pregnant, and you’re dragging me to the *wilderness*?”* she snapped. *”We’ll freeze!”*
*”You’re impossible,”* he sighed.
After William was born, Eleanor became obsessive. Exhausted, yet never missing a chore: laundry, vacuuming, sanitising. When William turned three, she returned to work—only to soon realise she was pregnant again.
*”Thomas, I think I am.”*
*”Doctor’s tomorrow,”* he said, driving her himself.
*”Definitely!”* she glowed, sliding back into the car.
*”Your smile gave it away,”* he laughed, squeezing her hand.
When their daughter, Lily, arrived, Eleanor drowned in sterility—steaming veg, bleach fumes, no sugar allowed. Thomas snapped. *”Ellie, you’re a *machine*. It’s just the kids, the cleaning, this rabbit food. I’m *sick* of steamed broccoli—fry something!”*
*”Fried food’s toxic, especially for children,”* she retorted. *”Be grateful I care.”*
Rows became routine. Thomas hated the clinical air. *”Let’s get a lakeside cabin for the weekend,”* he’d suggest.
*”And the kids?”*
*”Mum’ll take them. She adores them.”*
*”Your mother has *three cats* and that filthy spaniel! The *dust*—it’s unhealthy!”*
*”Christ, Ellie,”* he’d groan. *”Other wives *enjoy* life. You’re a *ghost*.”*
When Lily started nursery, Eleanor felt the rift widening. She didn’t understand why. *”Why don’t we *talk* anymore? Why’s everything surface-level?”* she’d wonder. *”I’m the *perfect* wife!”*
Once, she told Thomas as much. He exploded. *”Perfect? You’re *dull as ditchwater*! No fun, no spontaneity—just bleach and *rules*!”*
Thomas escaped on lads’ trips; Eleanor stayed home. She never imagined his loneliness would draw other women. Tall, magnetic, he turned heads effortlessly. Few noticed his wedding ring.
He fell for Isabelle, a friend of James’s wife—vivacious, quick to laugh, joining their hikes with a wink in his direction. By a bonfire one weekend, she made her move. Their affair burned fast—a year of stolen weekends. Eleanor noticed nothing, yet *felt* it—Thomas grew distant, barely helping with the kids, vanishing Fridays to Sundays.
*”Thomas, we need to talk,”* she said over supper. *”I’m not happy.”*
*”Neither am I,”* he said flatly. *”Glad you started. Tomorrow, I’m leaving.”*
*”What?”*
*”For someone else. Been seeing her a while. Thought you’d notice, but—”* He shrugged. *”I’m done.”*
Eleanor froze. *”How? I gave everything to this home!”*
*”Your sterility’s your pride,”* he said. *”But I need a *wife*—someone alive, who *sees* me. You’re a great mother. Not enough.”*
He left. Eleanor sat on the sofa, dissecting her life. *”What did I *do* with my years? Scrub floors? Steam vegetables? I didn’t *see* him. He’s right—I’m a joyless nag.”*
Time passed. She adjusted to solitude. The kids thrived at school; Thomas helped, taking them weekends—cinema, ice cream. Once, she spotted him with Isabelle at the shopping centre, laughing, fingers entwined, her eyes sparkling. *”She’s everything I’m not,”* Eleanor thought. *”My life’s empty now.”*
Later, William mentioned: *”Mum, Dad’s at Gran’s. Split with Isabelle—said it fizzled.”*
*”I didn’t know,”* Eleanor murmured.
Soon after, Lily burst in: *”Mum! Dad’s taking us *camping*—all of us, *you too*! Please say yes?”*
Eleanor almost scoffed: *”Mosquito bait?”*—then stopped herself. *”No. *Go*. Be different now.*
*”Alright, darling,”* she smiled.
*”Yes! I’ll call Dad!”* Lily squealed.
The trip was a revelation. Eleanor loved it—dawn choruses, crackling campfires, the smell of rain on canvas. Back home, sleepless, she marvelled: *”How much I *missed*… The stars, the silence, Thomas’s smile when I finally *joined* him…”*
SheOne evening, as they sat by the fireplace, Thomas reached for her hand and whispered, *”Welcome back, Ellie,”* and for the first time in years, she knew she was finally home.
