**The Perfect Wife**
In a small town nestled among dark pine forests and misty hills, where the autumn wind whispered of change, life moved at a steady but melancholy pace. As a student, Arthur had decided he would marry a calm, composed woman—one who would be a steadfast keeper of the home. Yet in his youth, he was drawn to lively, loud girls who demanded flowers, gifts, and trips to cafés. Money was tight for a student, and he quickly learned who was worth his time.
By the end of university, Arthur was dating Polly—smart, reserved, and meticulous. The order in her notebooks and clothes spoke volumes about her character.
“Oi, Steve,” he said to his mate one evening. “Reckon it’s time to settle down. You’re already married, soon to be a dad.”
“About bloody time!” Steve laughed. “With Polly from my lot, yeah? Go for it, she’s brilliant. Clever, pretty, chilled—not a drama queen. Her lecture notes look like they’ve been typeset—I nicked half my essays from her!”
“Yeah, Polly,” Arthur nodded. “Out of everyone I know, she’s the best choice.”
Before graduation, Arthur proposed, and Polly said yes.
Polly and her younger sister Lizzie had grown up practically without parents. Their father, a lorry driver, was gone for months at a time, and their mother worked late. Polly, ever responsible, took charge: cooking, checking Lizzie’s homework. No one forced her—it was just how she was.
Occasionally, they visited Aunt Olivia, their mother’s older sister. Polly adored her home—gleaming china, crocheted doilies, spotless floors. “Like no one actually lives here,” she thought, unaware she’d inherited the same trait. At home, she chased order, though it never quite matched Aunt Olivia’s standards. But her own notes, desk, and clothes were always impeccable. At uni, her essays were flawless, her grades top-notch, her appearance tidy.
After the wedding, Arthur and Polly moved into his modest two-bedroom flat.
“Blimey, Art, living the dream,” Steve said, half-envious. “Your own place, gorgeous missus. Meanwhile, me and the wife are crammed into a rented shoebox with no hope of buying.”
Polly dreamed of making their home as perfect as Aunt Olivia’s. She became obsessive—cleanliness was her creed. No one had taught her that family wasn’t just about appearances, but care. She’d learn that the hard way.
Arthur was her opposite—loud, sociable, a bloke who loved his mates, fishing trips, and camping. Polly preferred cross-stitch, books, and the occasional knit. Before their son was born, she endured Arthur’s outdoor escapades, though she found no joy in mosquitoes and tents.
One summer, Arthur was buzzing with excitement.
“Pol, tomorrow we’re off to the river—camping, fishing, barbecue. Pack your things!”
“Arthur, I *loathe* the outdoors,” she grimaced. “Mosquitoes, mud, filth. What if I catch something?”
But she went, knowing he wouldn’t budge. When she was heavily pregnant, she refused, and Arthur didn’t push. Instead, Polly threw herself into homemaking—scrubbing, cooking healthy meals, crafting cosiness.
“Polly, your place is like a show home!” gushed her uni friend Kate. “The perfect wife! How d’you manage? My house is chaos—my boys wreck everything. I don’t even bring ’em round here; they’d turn it upside down!” She chuckled. “My bloke’s a gem, though—gives me breaks, takes the kids out, lets me come see you for sanity.”
Arthur, impulsive and energetic, sometimes tugged Polly to the bedroom midday, but she’d resist.
“My ironing pile’s waiting—it’ll get creased!”
“Pol, I couldn’t care less if it’s ironed,” he’d grumble, pulling her close. “This flat’s like a bloody operating theatre—sterile as hell.”
“Don’t you *like* it clean?” she’d ask, baffled.
“I do, but you take it too far,” he’d mutter, dragging her to bed.
Once, Arthur announced:
“Pol, the lads are heading to a cottage this weekend—hiking, pub, log fire. Fancy it? If the walking’s not your thing, just enjoy the air. Proper countryside romance!”
“Arthur, I’m six months pregnant, and you want to drag me to the *middle of nowhere*? We’ll catch our death!”
“You’re such a nag, Pol,” he sighed. “Never want to do anything.”
After their son Liam was born, Polly became fanatical about hygiene. Exhausted, she still managed it all—laundry, ironing, scrubbing. When Liam turned three, she returned to work, only to soon realise she was pregnant again.
“Arthur, I think I’m expecting,” she said.
“Doctor’s tomorrow,” he replied, driving her to the clinic.
“It’s true!” Polly beamed, sliding back into the car.
“Could tell by that grin,” Arthur chuckled, pleased.
When their daughter Sophie arrived, Polly drowned in sterility—boiling clothes, steaming veg, disinfecting toys. Arthur snapped.
“Pol, you’re like a broody hen! Nothing matters but the kids, the bleach, and this *healthy* muck. I’m sick of your steamed rubbish—just *fry* something!”
“Fried food’s bad for them—”
“Christ, Pol, you’re *killing* me!”
Arguments became routine. Arthur hated their surgically clean home.
“Let’s get away—just us. Rent a cabin by the lake.”
“And the kids?”
“Drop ’em at Mum’s. She’d love it.”
“Your mum’s got three cats and a *dog*! Fur, dust—it’s *unhygienic*!”
“For God’s sake, Pol, you’re *exhausting*! Other wives go on trips—you’re just…” He waved her off.
When Sophie started nursery, Polly felt Arthur drifting away. She didn’t understand why.
*Why don’t we talk anymore? Share things?* she wondered. *I’m the perfect wife!*
Once, she told Arthur she was the best wife a man could hope for. He exploded.
“Perfect? You’re *dull as ditchwater*! Never want to go anywhere—just cleaning and kids!”
Arthur began escaping with his mates, while Polly stayed home. She never imagined loneliness would drive him to other women. But Arthur—tall, charming—drew glances easily. Few noticed his wedding ring.
He grew close to Jess, a friend of Steve’s wife. She’d joined their outings, eyeing Arthur for a while. On a riverside trip, she made her move. Their affair was fiery—full of laughter and passion. For nearly a year, Polly noticed nothing. But she *felt* it. Arthur grew cold, rarely helped with the kids, vanished every weekend.
“Arthur, we need to talk,” she said over dinner. “I’m not happy.”
“Neither am I,” he cut in. “Glad you brought it up. Tomorrow, I’m moving out.”
“*What?*”
“To hers. Been seeing her a while. Thought you’d notice, but you…” He shrugged. “Anyway, I’m gone.”
Polly froze. *How? I’ve done everything for this home!*
“Your *cleanliness*’s your thing,” he said. “But I need a *real* wife—someone who *lives*. You’re a great mum, but it’s not enough.”
Arthur left. Polly sat on the sofa, surveying her life. *What have I wasted years on? Bleach? Steamed veg?* She hadn’t seen him, heard him. *He’s right—I’m a nag.*
Time passed. Polly adjusted to solitude. The kids thrived—Arthur took them weekends, to films, parks. Once, she spotted him with Jess at the mall—laughing, holding hands, her eyes bright. *She’s everything I’m not,* Polly thought. *My life’s empty.*
Later, Liam mentioned:
“Mum, Dad’s at Gran’s. Split with Auntie Jess—said it didn’t work.”
“Didn’t know,” Polly murmured.
Soon, Sophie burst in:
“Mum, Dad’s taking us camping! *All* of us—you too! Can we go?”
Polly almost said, *To feed mosquitoes?*—but stopped. *No. I’ll go. I’m different now.*
“Alright, love,” she smiled.
“*Yes!* I’ll call Dad!” Sophie cheered.
The trip flew by in a haze. Polly *loved* it—dawn by the tent, birdsong, tea by the fire. That night, she lay awake, realising: *I’ve missed so much.*
They went again—to lakesThey rebuilt their love slowly, not in the sterility of a perfect home, but in the messy, joyful chaos of shared adventures, and this time, Polly never let the small things steal the big moments.
