The Perfect Family
“Oh, I’m nervous,” Alice said, pausing at the front steps.
“Why? Afraid of my parents?” George asked, taking her hand.
“That they won’t like me,” Alice admitted, glancing up at him with anxious eyes.
“Don’t worry. You’ll see—it’ll be fine. *I’m* the one marrying you, not my parents. Come on.” George tugged her toward the door.
“Mum’s name is Eleanor Margaret. Got it?” he reminded her.
Alice repeated it slowly.
“I’ll forget from nerves, I just know it,” she confessed.
“And Dad’s—”
“William Henry,” Alice blurted. “At least your father’s name is simple. Why does your mum have such an unusual middle name? Was your grandfather foreign?”
“Why would you think that?”
They stepped inside the building, and George called the lift.
“Her father named her after his wife, my grandmother. Said she was a radiant soul. An actress. Shame I never met her—she died young. Our family has old English roots.”
The lift dinged open, welcoming them. George pulled Alice close as they stepped in.
“Relax. I’m right here.”
At the door stood a petite woman with a short bob. She seemed too young to be George’s mother. Her smile was warm as she motioned them inside. She wore flowing beige trousers and a crisp white blouse. In the bright light, Alice spotted the faint lines on her face—proof of time passed.
“Hello,” Alice murmured, glancing at George for a cue. He stayed silent. Too afraid to risk a mistake, Alice hesitated.
“Come in, Alice. Don’t fret. No one gets my name right the first time,” Eleanor said with an understanding smile. Alice relaxed.
“Keep your shoes on. Come through. Will! Where *are* you?” Eleanor called out.
A broad-shouldered man soon appeared. He reminded Alice of a classic film star, though not in looks alone—just in presence. Beside him, Eleanor seemed almost girlish. *He must’ve been breathtaking when younger,* Alice thought.
“William Henry,” he introduced himself, offering a hand. His grip was firm, warm, and brief.
“Come, dinner’s getting cold,” Eleanor urged.
“George, take care of Alice,” William said, pouring wine from an already open bottle.
Eleanor asked gentle questions, skirting details, while sharing bits about their family. The warmth of the wine and the ease of conversation soon loosened Alice’s nerves.
“Tell your parents not to fret. We’ll handle the wedding,” Eleanor assured her kindly.
To Alice, George’s family seemed perfect. Hers was different. Her mother fussed over feeding everyone, while her father drank too much, filling his own glass, ignoring the table. Drunk, he’d ramble, dispensing unwanted advice or snapping at her mother when she tried to quiet him.
She always felt ashamed. If she could, she’d leave her parents off the guest list—but they’d be hurt. Why *had* she agreed to marry George? They were from different worlds… Lost in thought, she missed his words.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“I said they like you.”
“Your parents are lovely. I wish we could be like them—you can tell they love each other. And you. But mine… I dread how they’ll act at the wedding.”
“Don’t worry. They’ll behave. We argue too, just… quieter. By the way—have you picked a dress yet? I want you to be the most beautiful bride,” George murmured, kissing her.
Alice didn’t want to go alone, and George couldn’t see the dress beforehand. Her mother was too frugal, so she called her friend Rosie instead. Rosie erupted in chatter the moment she answered, barely letting Alice speak. Finally, Alice cut in:
“Can you come dress shopping with me?”
“Of course! When?”
The next day, Alice arrived early at the café near the bridal shop. The waiter handed her a menu, but she waved it away. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Rosie was late, as usual. As Alice scanned the room, she froze. At a far table sat William Henry, eyes fixed on a young blonde. She flirted openly. Alice turned away. *Where is Rosie? I’ll wait five more minutes.*
Her gaze kept flicking back. William held the woman’s hands, speaking intently. Not the way one looks at a mere acquaintance. Then—he kissed her. A *date*? A mistress? Did George know? Did *Eleanor*? She should leave before he noticed her. But she stayed, paralyzed.
So much for perfection.
“Alice! Over here!” Rosie’s voice rang out. Heads turned as she wove through tables, red-haired and loud.
Alice stood abruptly. “I have to go. Let’s reschedule.”
Rosie chased her outside. “You *called* me! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. A headache. I forgot an errand.” Alice hurried off.
Later, she rang George for Eleanor’s number.
“You’re right to ask Mum. She’s got brilliant taste,” he approved.
“Alice, dear, what’s happened?” Eleanor answered promptly.
“Eleanor Margaret,” Alice fumbled. “Could you… help me pick a dress?”
“Of course. Tomorrow?”
In the salon, Eleanor took charge. The assistants deferred to her. After three tries, the dress was chosen. Shoes followed. Exhausted, they retreated to a café—the same one. No sign of William now.
“How have you stayed with a man like your husband all these years?” Alice burst out. “I’d die of jealousy!”
Eleanor smiled faintly. “I love him. I used to mind the attention he got. Now I don’t. He’s hopeless at daily things. Doesn’t know where his own socks are. At work, he’s dashing. At home? A child.”
She leaned in. “A wise woman never lets her husband know she’s the cleverer one. Give advice so he believes it’s his own idea. That’s the secret.”
*But the mistress was his choice. Should I tell her?* Alice stayed silent. Maybe it was just a kiss.
Days later, she saw them again—leaving a jeweller’s. She hinted to George his family wasn’t so perfect.
“You must’ve mistaken him,” George said tightly.
They nearly argued. Alice backpedalled.
Before William’s birthday, Eleanor invited them to plan. Later, alone with Alice, she asked, “You’ve been twitchy. What’s bothering you?”
Alice confessed. Eleanor’s face didn’t change, only her eyes saddened.
“You think I don’t know?”
“You *do*?”
“He’s cheated for years. Women always know.”
“And you forgave him?”
“I love him,” Eleanor sighed. “If I left, where would I go? I grew up in a cramped flat with a drunk for a father. George adores his dad. I wouldn’t take that from him.”
She shrugged. “Passion fades. Friendship stays. Would another man have raised George? My mother endured worse. So did I. William may flirt, but he’d never leave me. I made him who he is.”
Alice frowned. “I couldn’t do it.”
“I hope you never have to. But remember—don’t lose yourself in a man.”
The wedding was beautiful. Guests whispered how lucky Alice was to marry into such a family. Eleanor and William looked happy.
Maybe they were. Or maybe perfection was just a well-kept secret. Alice knew the truth now—no family was flawless.
