The Perfect Wife
Even as a university student, Edward had decided he would marry a calm and level-headed woman. Such women made good wives. Yet he dated others—lively, chatty girls, some of whom demanded flowers, gifts, and dinners out straight away. But where would a poor student get the money? So he quietly observed, figuring out which girls were worth his time.
By the time he neared graduation, he was seeing Veronica—a clever, composed young woman with an eye for order. Anyone could see she was meticulous in everything she did.
“Listen, Tom,” Edward said to his friend one day, “I think it’s time I got married. You’re already a family man, and now you’ve got another on the way.”
“Finally!” Tom laughed. “I’ve been telling you for ages. So, is it Veronica from my class? Marry her, she’s brilliant—smart, pretty, and most importantly, not the dramatic sort. Never seen her lose her temper. And her notes! So neat I’ve borrowed them more times than I can count.”
“Yeah, I think she’s the best choice,” Edward agreed with a chuckle.
Before graduating, he proposed, and Veronica accepted.
Growing up, Veronica and her younger sister had often been alone at home. Their father, a lorry driver, was away for long stretches, and their mother worked late. So from an early age, Veronica took charge—cooking for her sister, checking her homework. Though their mother never forced chores upon her, it was simply in Veronica’s nature.
Occasionally, they visited Aunt Joan, their mother’s elder sister, and Veronica would marvel at her home.
“Everything’s so spotless,” she’d think, wandering through the rooms. “Those hand-knitted doilies, the gleaming china—it’s like no one even lives here.”
She didn’t yet realise she’d inherited that same fastidiousness. At home, she strove for cleanliness, though it wasn’t always possible. But her notebooks and desk were always immaculate. At university, her notes were just as precise, her exams passed with ease, her outfits always neat.
After the wedding, they moved straight into Edward’s small two-bedroom flat.
“You’ve landed on your feet,” Tom would say, half-jealous. “Your own place, a beautiful wife—not like us, still renting with no hope of buying anytime soon.”
Determined to build her own perfect home, Veronica aimed for the same pristine order as Aunt Joan’s. No one had told her that a wife and mother should prioritise her family’s happiness over perfect appearances. It would take life’s hard lessons to teach her that.
Edward and Veronica were opposites. He was loud, sociable, always surrounded by friends, while she was quiet and reserved. He loved camping, fishing trips, barbecues with mates; she preferred embroidery, knitting, and reading.
Before their first child was born, she tolerated his outdoor excursions—though she never enjoyed them.
“Veronica, we’re camping by the river this weekend,” he’d announce. “Fishing, a barbecue—you’ll love the fresh air.”
“I don’t love it,” she’d sigh. “Just feeding mosquitoes and sleeping on hard ground. It’s unhygienic.” But she’d pack anyway, knowing he wouldn’t relent.
When she was heavily pregnant, he didn’t insist. Instead, she focused on nesting—cleaning, meal-planning, creating the cosy home she envisioned.
“Your flat is like a showroom,” her friend Emma would marvel during visits. “You’re the perfect wife. How do you manage it? My boys turn the place upside down—I wouldn’t dare bring them here. But my husband’s a gem—gives me breaks, takes them out so I can breathe.”
Edward was impulsive. Sometimes he’d drag her to bed in broad daylight, and she’d resist.
“The laundry isn’t ironed—it’ll wrinkle!”
“Honestly, love, I don’t care if the sheets are pressed,” he’d murmur, kissing her neck. “Sometimes this place feels like a hospital—all this sterility.”
“Don’t you like living in a clean, tidy home?”
“I do,” he’d say, pulling her closer. “But you take it too far.”
One winter evening, he bounded in with news.
“Lads are heading to the countryside this weekend—skiing, snowmobiling. There’s a pub, a roast—come along. The cottage has a fireplace, proper cosy.”
“Are you mad? I’m six months pregnant, and you want me traipsing to the middle of nowhere in winter? What if we catch cold?”
“Christ, you’re such a killjoy,” he groaned.
When little Thomas arrived, her obsession with cleanliness nearly drove her mad—though she’d begun to see it herself. Exhausted, she still kept up. By the time Thomas was three, she returned to work—but not for long.
“Edward, I think I’m pregnant again.”
The next day, he drove her to the doctor.
“It’s true,” she beamed afterward, sliding into the car.
“Could tell by your face,” he grinned.
After daughter Sophie was born, Veronica plunged back into sterilising, scrubbing, ironing—even Edward reached his limit.
“You’ve turned into a broody hen,” he grumbled. “Nothing but kids, cleaning, and steamed dinners. Can’t you fry something for once?”
“Fried food’s bad for the children!”
Their bickering became routine. Edward hated the clinical tidiness.
“Let’s get away, just us. The kids can stay with Mum.”
“Your mother has two dogs and a cat—the fur, the dust! It’s not healthy.”
“God, you’re impossible!” he’d groan.
By the time Sophie started nursery, Veronica sensed the distance between them.
“Why don’t we talk anymore?” she wondered. “I’m the perfect wife—why isn’t he happy?”
She even told him once how rare a wife like her was.
“Yeah, perfect,” he muttered. “And boring as hell. You never want to do anything.”
Edward took his trips without her. She stayed home, cleaning, until one day she regretted it deeply.
She never considered that a man alone on weekends might attract other women. Edward was handsome, charming—the sort women noticed, wedding ring or not.
He fell for Anna without realising. Tom’s wife had brought her along on outings, and Anna had set her sights on Edward. One riverside camping trip sealed it.
Their affair lasted nearly a year before Veronica suspected. She felt the rift but didn’t understand.
“Let’s talk about us,” she said one evening.
“Good,” he replied. “I’m leaving tomorrow. For another woman.”
She stared, stunned.
“But our home—it’s perfect!”
“Spotless, yes. But I need a wife who enjoys life with me. You’re a great mother, but I want more.”
After he left, she sat numb, replaying her mistakes.
“All those years wasted on pointless cleanliness, steamed dinners. I ignored him completely.”
Time passed. Veronica adjusted to solitude. Edward helped with the children, taking them weekends—to the park, the cinema.
Once, she saw him with Anna at the shops, laughing, their eyes bright.
“She’s everything I’m not,” Veronica thought. “My life’s tidy—and empty.”
Then one day, Thomas said, “Mum, Dad’s moved back to Gran’s. He and Anna split.”
Later, Sophie burst in: “Dad’s invited us all fishing! Even you. Please say yes!”
Veronica nearly snapped, “I’d rather not feed mosquitoes,” but caught herself.
“Alright,” she said.
The two days flew. Waking at dawn to birdsong, swimming in the clear river, sipping herbal tea by the fire—it was magical.
She finally understood. They went mushroom-picking next, then strolled the park eating ice cream. She sensed Edward had reconsidered too—that any day now, he’d ask to come home.
Veronica knew now: happiness meant living for her family, supporting them fully. And she felt it—happiness was returning.
