**The Perfect Wife**
Even as a student at university, Oliver had decided he would marry a calm, level-headed girl. Such women made good wives. Yet, he dated others—bubbly, chatty types, some who demanded flowers, gifts, and dinners out. But where was a poor student meant to get the money? So he weighed his options, figuring out who was who among the girls he knew.
By the time he neared graduation, he was seeing Eleanor—intelligent, quiet, meticulous. Anyone could see she kept everything in order.
“Tom,” Oliver told his friend one evening, “I reckon it’s time I got married. You’re already a family man, with another on the way.”
“About time, Olly!” Tom laughed. “So, is it Eleanor from my study group? Marry her—she’s brilliant, beautiful, and most importantly, not a drama queen. Never seen her lose her cool. And her notes? Impeccable. I’ve copied half of mine from hers.”
“Yeah, I think she’s the best choice,” Oliver agreed.
Before graduation, he proposed. Eleanor said yes.
Growing up, Eleanor and her younger sister were often alone. Their father, a lorry driver, was gone for weeks, and their mother worked late. So Eleanor took charge—cooking, checking homework. Their mother never forced her, but she was like that by nature.
When visiting Aunt Margaret, her mother’s elder sister, Eleanor was always struck by the house.
*How spotless it is*, she’d think, admiring the crocheted doilies, the gleaming dishes. The place was so pristine it hardly seemed lived in. She didn’t realize then that she’d inherited this trait. At home, she strived for the same—though her desk and university notes were always immaculate.
When she and Oliver married, they moved into his small two-bedroom flat.
“Lucky sod,” Tom would say, half-joking. “Your own place, a gorgeous wife. Meanwhile, we’re stuck renting. No chance of buying anytime soon.”
Eleanor set out to create the perfect home—just like Aunt Margaret’s. Neat, sterile, controlled.
No one told her that a wife and mother’s first duty was to her family, not the illusion of perfection. Life would teach her that—later.
Oliver was loud, sociable, always surrounded by mates. Eleanor was his opposite. He loved camping, fishing, barbecues. She preferred embroidery, knitting, books.
Before their first son was born, she humored him—tagging along on trips she hated, just to keep the peace.
“Ellie, we’re camping by the lake this weekend,” he’d announce. “Fishing, a fire, the lot. Pack your things.”
“I hate it, Olly. Mosquitoes, dirt, sleeping on the ground—it’s unsanitary.” But she went anyway.
Pregnancy spared her the trips. Instead, she nested—cleaning, organizing, obsessing over healthy meals.
“Your flat’s like a hospital, Ellie,” her friend Charlotte remarked once. “You’re the perfect wife. How do you manage it? My boys turn the place upside down. I wouldn’t dare bring them here.”
Oliver was impulsive. Sometimes he’d pull her to bed midday.
“The laundry’s not ironed yet—it’ll crease!”
“Ellie, I don’t care if the sheets are ironed,” he’d grumble, kissing her neck. “Sometimes this place feels like an operating theatre.”
“You don’t like living in a clean home?”
“Didn’t say that. But you take it too far.”
One winter evening, he came home excited.
“Lads are planning a weekend in the countryside—sledging, a pub roast, a cottage. Fancy it?”
“Olly, I’m six months pregnant! Dragging me out in the cold?”
“Christ, Ellie, you’re such a killjoy.”
After James was born, she nearly lost her mind over cleanliness. She knew it was too much, but she couldn’t stop. When little Emily arrived, it got worse.
“You’ve turned into a bloody drill sergeant,” Oliver snapped once. “Steamed veggies, sterilised bottles—where’s the fun? Fry something for once!”
“Fried food’s bad for the kids!”
These clashes became routine. He hated the sterility.
“Let’s get away—just us. Leave the kids with Mum.”
“Your mother has two dogs and a cat! The fur, the dirt—no.”
“God, Ellie, you’re impossible. Other wives go out with their husbands!”
By the time Emily started nursery, Eleanor sensed the distance between them. She didn’t understand.
“Our marriage is strained,” she said one evening. “We don’t talk anymore.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not happy either,” he admitted bluntly. “Actually, I’m leaving. Tomorrow.”
“*What?*”
“Found someone else. Been thinking about it for ages.”
Eleanor was stunned.
“But—I made our home perfect!”
“Too perfect. I want a wife who laughs with me, who doesn’t treat life like a bloody checklist.”
He left. She sat numb, replaying her mistakes.
*All those years wasted on pointless perfection.*
Time passed. Oliver helped with the kids—took them to the park, the cinema. Once, she saw him with *her*—laughing, holding hands, eyes bright.
*She’s everything I’m not.*
Then one day, James said, “Mum, Dad’s living with Gran now. He left Auntie Hannah. Said it didn’t work out.”
Later, Emily burst in: “Dad’s invited us all fishing! Even you! Please say yes!”
Eleanor almost snapped, *I’m not feeding mosquitoes*—but stopped herself.
“Alright,” she said.
The trip was magic. Waking at dawn in a tent, swimming in the lake, tea by the fire. She lay awake that night, heart pounding.
*I was such a fool.*
They went mushroom-picking next. Walks in the park, ice cream cones. She could feel Oliver watching her—waiting.
She knew now: happiness wasn’t in spotless floors. It was in messy, laughing moments. And soon—very soon—it would find its way back home.
