Fairy Tale Life
That morning, Jane woke with the sense that something important was going to happen. The sun was shining extra brightly, the birds were singing outside, and as her husband left for work, he kissed her cheek and said, You really are the best. Everything was just as it always was. Absolutely perfect.
Perfect thats the word Jane measured her life by. A perfect husband, a businessman: successful, caring. Perfect children: her son away at university and her daughter finishing sixth form clever, responsible, no trouble at all. The perfect flat in central London, a lovely cottage in the countryside, a lovely car. She herself was perfect too: well-groomed, fit at forty-five she looked no older than thirty-five.
Her friends envied her: Jane, youre so lucky! Its like a fairy tale, not real life. Jane would just smile modestly and think: yes, I am lucky. But in truth, luck had nothing to do with it. She simply always knew how things ought to be. How to look, what to say, how to run a household, how to support her husband, how to raise her children. She poured every bit of herself into upholding this perfection. Nothing left over.
Her husband, Henry, was at the centre of her universe. They had met in their fourth year at university: tall, handsome, bright, from a good family. Every girl fancied him, but he chose her. Jane. She could hardly believe her luck.
They married a year later. Then his business, her career (shed made it up to Head Accountant at a large firm), then the children arrived. Everything slotted together like music.
Sometimes, though, Jane would notice odd things. Henry might stare out the window, lost in thought, barely hearing what she said. He might go off for a business trip and ring home less often. Or look at her with a kind of sadness, as if his mind were somewhere else.
Whats wrong? shed ask.
Nothing, hed reply. Just tired.
She didnt give it much thought. Who isnt tired? Business is stressful.
***
That Tuesday, Jane dropped by Henrys office hed asked her to sign some documents as his proxy. The new secretary looked flustered, mumbling, Mr. Williams is in a meeting, maybe you could wait? Jane waved it off: Im family, dont worry.
And she went straight in.
Henry was at his desk, staring at his computer screen. On it was a photo of a woman young, pretty, long light hair and sad eyes. Jane caught sight and was surprised looking at photos of other women in front of the new secretary?
Henry, Im just here for the documents, she said.
He startled, hastily closed the window, but Jane had already noticed. And something inside her gave a little twist.
Yes, of course, he hurriedly opened a drawer. Here, theyre all here. Just sign and leave them with me, Ill collect them later.
Whos that? Jane asked, remarkably calm in that special way only women who sense impending disaster can be.
What do you mean? he feigned surprise, but his eyes gave him away. Oh, just a colleague. Work stuff.
Looking at someones photos on full screen for work?
Jane, dont start, he winced. Youre imagining things.
She nodded, took the papers, and left. But inside, a worm of doubt began to gnaw.
***
Of course, Jane started her own investigation. She hadnt meant to her hands just did it themselves. She checked his phone one evening while he was in the shower. She found the messages, hidden behind a locked app. But she knew the code their daughters birthday. Henry had never changed his passwords.
I miss you, the woman wrote.
I miss you too. Well see each other soon, he replied.
Hows she? Does she suspect?
No. Everythings fine.
Jane read, disbelieving. Five years. For five years, hed been having an affair. Living a double life. While she cooked dinners, nurtured their children, greeted him after work, smiled at parties he was with someone else.
She scrolled back through the messages. There were photos, affectionate words, plans and arrangements. And then she saw a message that stopped her heart cold:
You know youre my only one. Since university. If not for everything that happened, we would never have split. Janes a good woman, but it just worked out that way.
Jane read it three times.
My only one. Since university. Worked out that way.
So, all this time, she wasnt the loved one. She was just convenient. The person who happened to be there after his real love was gone.
That evening, she waited for him in the kitchen. Standing by the window, watching the sunset, she wondered: How do you go on from here? What do you say to the children? What do you do with the years that suddenly feel like a counterfeit?
Henry came in, saw her face, and knew instantly.
You know everything, he said without a hint of question.
I do, Jane replied. Who is she?
He was silent for a long time. Then he sat at the table and buried his face in his hands.
Jane, Im sorry. I never wanted you to find out like this.
How did you want me to find out? her voice trembled. Or did you want me never to know? Just to carry on, all the while youre thinking of her?
Im not always thinking of her, he protested weakly.
Dont lie. Ive read it. Youre my only one. Since university. Tell me. I want to know the truth.
And so he told her.
Her name was Emily. Theyd met during their first year at university, fell instantly in love. Planned to marry. But Emilys parents were against it Henry wasnt from their circle, had no money, no connections. They whisked her away to another city, found her a suitable match. Emily wrote letters, cried, but couldnt fight back.
Henry waited for two years. Then he met Jane: clever, pretty, from a good family. And he thought: why not? Life goes on.
He married Jane. The children arrived. Work took off. In fact, he threw himself into business as a way of proving himself to Emilys parents, and to himself. All the while, Emily lived on, a ghost in his mind.
Five years ago, we bumped into each other again, he said quietly. Shes divorced, single, no children. And everything came rushing back. I couldnt fight it.
Did you try to fight it with me? Jane asked. Did you fight it for nearly twenty years?
I respect you, he began. Youre a wonderful wife, mother, and home maker. Youve given me everything.
Except love, she cut in. You never took love from me. You didnt want it. You wanted a convenient woman for a convenient life. And love was left back at university with Emily.
He was silent. Because it was true.
***
Jane packed swiftly. Shed always known: if youre going to go, you go at once. No drama, no shouting, no lets try to save it. She respected herself too much to be a token in someone elses love story.
She told the children quietly, without tears. Her son tried to speak to his father, but Jane stopped him: Leave it, Tom. This is between us. Dont get involved.
Her daughter cried: Mum, how will you manage on your own?
I have myself, Jane replied. And thats quite a lot, believe me.
She rented a small flat on the other side of town.
The first few months were hell. At night, shed stare at the ceiling, sleepless. By day, she worked, smiled, got on with things. But the nights were filled with memories. She replayed all those years, his I love yous, all the kisses, the Christmases together. And realised it had all been a lie. A comfortable, warm, beautiful lie but a lie.
The worst thing wasnt the betrayal. The worst was knowing that she, so clever, so strong, so perfect, had noticed nothing. Because she didnt want to notice. Because it was easier to ignore than to break the perfect picture shed built.
***
A year later, with the wounds beginning to heal, Jane bumped into a mutual friend.
Did you hear? Henrys remarried. To that Emily woman. Apparently, they were in love at university, but her parents split them up. Its like something from a film, isnt it?
Jane smiled politely, as only former perfect wives can.
Yes, I can imagine, she said. Quite the love story.
At home, she sat in the kitchen for a long while, simply staring at the wall. Then, for the first time in that year, she cried.
Not from pain the pain had dulled. From hurt. The realisation that all those years, shed just been background. Part of the scenery. A placeholder for a man waiting for someone else.
Jane had given him children. Built their home. Supported his business. Looked after his parents. Hosted his friends. Created comfort, stability. And all the time, his heart belonged elsewhere. The bitterest truth there was nothing she could do about it. You cant force someone to love you. You cant become the main character if you were always the understudy.
***
Two more years passed.
Jane learned to live alone. And, strangely, she liked it. No one expected dinner on the dot of seven. No one grumbled if she stayed late at work. No one gazed out the window, thinking of someone else. Her children grew up Tom got married, Anna started her masters. They met often, and Jane was more than a mother she was a friend.
Occasionally friends would ask: Jane, what about men? Youre still young, beautiful. Why not date? Jane would shrug: Not ready yet. Still getting the hang of freedom.
The truth lay deeper. She was afraid of being the convenient option again. Afraid, behind the pretty words, of indifference. Afraid of becoming someones stand-in while they waited for their true love.
Better to be alone than with just anyone, shed say. At least Im my own first choice.
One evening, sorting through old belongings, Jane found her wedding album. She sat a long time, flicking through, looking at her young eyes, his smile. Back then, shed believed happiness would last forever.
And now?
Now she closed the album and tucked it away on a high shelf. Not thrown out memories are memories. But not left out in the open, either.
The sun streamed in through the window. Next door, someone was playing music someone was doing up their flat. Life went on.
Jane looked in the mirror, saw herself: fit, well-groomed, clear-eyed, with a calm smile.
You did well, she told her reflection. You made it.
And it was the truth. She had succeeded. Not because she found someone better. But because she found herself.
The self shed nearly lost chasing that perfect image. The one who could be alone, but never lonely. The one who knew her own worth.
And that is priceless.
Henry still calls sometimes. Asks how she is. Sends a birthday text. Jane replies politely, briefly and thats the end of it.
She doesnt feel angry anymore. The anger faded long ago. All that remains is the quiet knowledge: she was a good wife. But he was never truly her man. They just realised it far too late.
And Emily Well, Emily now lives in Janes old house with Janes old husband. Janes heard theyre happy. And she was glad, in a way. At least that story got its happy ending. Even if it wasnt for her.
Today, Jane is off to a yoga class. Meeting a friend for coffee afterwards. Then dinner with her son and daughter-in-law at a new restaurant theyve discovered.
Life is full. She made it that way herself.
Sometimes, as she settles into bed, Jane wonders: what if things had been different? If he had truly loved her? If theyd grown old together, had grandchildren, spent weekends in the country
But then she rolls over and falls asleep. Because theres no use wondering about what never was. What happened, happened. And from it, she emerged victorious.
Not because she won over anyone else. But because she didnt lose herself. And that, in the end, is all that really matters.
