The Perfect Wife
While still at university, Nigel decided he’d marry a calm, level-headed woman someday. Those were the keepers. But in the meantime, he dated lively, chatty girls—some of whom demanded flowers, gifts, and fancy dinners right away. Where was a broke student supposed to get the money for that? So, he took his time figuring out who was who.
By his final year, he was dating Veronica—smart, quiet, and meticulously tidy. You could tell just by looking at her that she had everything under control.
“Al,” Nigel told his mate one day, “reckon it’s time I settled down. You’re already a married man with a little one on the way.”
“Blimey, Nige, finally! Been telling you for ages. So, is it Veronica from my lot, then?” Al grinned. “Do it, mate. She’s brilliant—sharp, gorgeous, and most importantly, not a drama queen. Never seen her lose it. And her notes? Flawless. I’ve copied off her more times than I can count.”
“Yeah, Vee’s the best option I’ve got, at least out of the girls I know,” Nigel laughed.
Before graduation, he proposed, and Veronica said yes.
Growing up, Veronica and her little sister were often home alone. Their dad was a long-haul lorry driver, and their mum worked late. So, once Veronica was old enough, she took charge—cooking for her sister, checking homework. Their mum never forced her, but it was just how she was.
When they visited Aunt Joan, their mum’s older sister, Veronica was always amazed.
“Spotless,” she’d think, glancing around the house. “Hand-stitched doilies, gleaming cutlery—you’d think no one actually lived here.”
She didn’t realise then that she’d inherited this obsession from Aunt Joan. At home, she strived for the same perfection, though it wasn’t always possible. But her lecture notes? Impeccable. Her outfits? Neatly pressed. Exams? Aced.
After marrying, they moved into Nigel’s small two-bed flat.
“Lucky sod,” Al would say, half-jealous. “Your own place, a stunner for a wife. Meanwhile, we’re stuck renting some mouldy corner with no hope of a mortgage.”
Veronica was determined to create her own version of Aunt Joan’s perfect home—spotless, orderly, borderline obsessive.
No one told her that being a wife and mum meant prioritising people over polish. Life had to teach her that the hard way.
Nigel was her opposite—loud, sociable, always surrounded by mates. He loved camping, fishing trips, barbecues. Veronica? Cross-stitching, knitting, and books were more her speed.
Before their first son was born, she grudgingly tagged along on his outdoor adventures, though she’d rather have been anywhere else.
“Nige, I *hate* nature. It’s just mosquitoes and sleeping on rocks. And the germs—ugh,” she’d groan, but she knew he’d drag her anyway.
Once she was heavily pregnant, though, even he didn’t push it. Instead, she nested—scrubbing, organising, meal-prepping. Their flat was *perfect*.
“Veronica, this place is like a show home,” her uni friend Lizzie marvelled during a visit. “How do you manage it? Mine’s a tip—two little tornadoes see to that. I won’t even bring ’em round; they’d wreck the place in seconds. But my husband’s a gem—gives me breaks, takes the boys out so I can breathe. Even told me to pop over here for some peace.”
Nigel was impulsive. Sometimes he’d try to whisk her off to the bedroom midday, and she’d resist.
“The laundry’s not folded! It’ll crease!”
“Vee, honest, I couldn’t care less if the sheets are ironed,” he’d mutter, nuzzling her neck. “Sometimes this flat feels like a surgery—all sterile and shiny.”
“Don’t you *like* living in a clean, cosy home?”
“Didn’t say that. Love it. But you’re taking it to extremes,” he’d reply, tugging her toward the bed.
One evening, Nigel announced:
“Lads are heading to the Cotswolds this weekend—skiing, snowmobiling. Pub lunch, proper countryside air. You’ll love it.”
“Are you mad? I’m six months pregnant! And in *winter*? What if we catch something?”
“Christ, woman, you’re such a killjoy.”
When little Tommy arrived, her obsession with sterility nearly broke her. She *knew* it was too much, but she couldn’t stop. By the time he was three, she went back to work—briefly.
“Nige, I think I’m pregnant again,” she said one night.
“Doctor tomorrow,” he replied, and off they went.
“Yep,” Veronica beamed, sliding back into the car.
“Could tell by the grin,” Nigel chuckled.
After daughter Emily was born, the scrubbing, steaming, and sanitising reached new heights. Even Nigel cracked.
“Vee, you’ve turned into a proper clucking hen,” he grumbled. “Kids, cleaning, steamed veg—that’s it. Can’t you *fry* something for once?”
“Fried food’s bad for the kids!”
These spats became routine. Nigel hated the clinical flat.
“Let’s get away—just us. Hire a cottage by the lake. Kids can stay with Mum.”
“Your mum’s got two dogs and a cat! The *fur*, the *dust*—”
“God, Veronica, I’m *sick* of this! Other wives actually *enjoy* trips with their husbands!”
By the time Emily started nursery, Veronica sensed the distance between them. She was baffled.
“Why are we so… detached? We don’t talk, don’t share things. I don’t get it. I’m the *perfect* wife.”
She even told Nigel once—*I’m ideal, and women like me are rare.* He snorted:
“Yeah, ideal. And boring as hell. Never want to do anything fun.”
So, he went on lads’ trips without her. She stayed home, scrubbing. And then—she regretted it.
A man alone on weekends? She never considered other women might notice. Nigel was tall, fit, quick-witted—exactly the type women flocked to, wedding ring or not.
He fell for Anna without even realising. Al’s wife had been bringing her along on trips for ages—Anna had fancied Nigel for years. One lakeside weekend, she made her move.
Their affair lasted nearly a year before Veronica suspected. But she *felt* it—the coldness, the excuses. Fridays, he’d vanish fishing. Sundays, he’d slink back.
“Nige, we need to talk,” she said at dinner. “This isn’t working.”
“Agreed,” he said flatly. “Actually, I’m moving out tomorrow. To her place.”
“*What?*”
“Yeah. Been seeing someone. Thought you’d notice eventually, but…” He shrugged. “You’re a great mum. Spotless house. But I need more.”
Veronica sat stunned.
“All those years… for *what*? Sterile floors and steamed broccoli? I *missed* us.”
Nigel left. She stared at her immaculate flat, gutted.
Time passed. The kids started school. Nigel helped—taking them weekends, cinema trips, park runs.
Once, she spotted him with *her* at the mall—laughing, holding hands, *glowing*.
“That’s what I lacked,” Veronica realised. “Spark.”
Then Tommy dropped a bombshell:
“Mum, Dad’s moved in with Nan. Dumped Auntie Anna. Said it didn’t work out.”
“…Oh.”
Later, Emily burst in:
“Mum! Dad’s invited us all fishing! *You too!* Please say yes!”
Veronica almost snapped—*Ugh, mosquitoes*—but stopped herself.
*No. New me.*
“Alright, love. I’ll go.”
The weekend flew by. For the first time, she *loved* it—dawn birdsong, icy river dips, campfire tea. That night, she lay awake, buzzing.
*I was such a fool.*
They went mushroom-picking next. Ice creams in the park. Nigel kept glancing at her, hopeful.
She *knew* now. Happiness wasn’t in spotless floors—it was in muddy wellies, laughter, *living*.
And soon—very soon—she’d have it all back.
