**The Illusion of a Perfect Life**
I woke up to the sight of my Emily standing beside the bed, holding a tray with a steaming cup of coffee. Neatly arranged on small plates were slices of cheese and ham.
“Good morning, my love,” she said softly, her voice like a melody promising nothing but happiness.
“Is this for me?” I rubbed my eyes, half-convinced I was dreaming.
“Of course, everything’s just for you,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with warmth.
Half an hour later, the kitchen table was set with a breakfast that radiated comfort and care. Before leaving for work, Emily kissed my cheek, leaving behind the faint scent of her perfume.
“Don’t forget, you’ve got lads’ night at the garage today,” she reminded me, straightening my collar.
“Wait, you’re actually alright with me staying out?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.
“Of course, darling. I’ll be waiting for you,” she smiled, and my heart skipped a beat.
That evening, returning to our cottage in the village of Ashford, I froze on the doorstep as if I’d walked into someone else’s life. For a moment, I thought I’d come to the wrong house.
There stood Emily, looking like she’d stepped straight off the cover of a glossy magazine. A backless evening dress hugged her figure, her hair cascaded in waves, and her mascara-lined eyes held an alluring mystery.
“You look… incredible,” I breathed, aware I still carried the faint whiff of ale from the pub.
A candlelit dinner awaited—flickering flames reflected in the wine glasses. Gracefully sitting across from me, she brushed her fingers over my hand, offering a coy, almost theatrical smile.
“No headache? Not tired after work?” I asked, still bewildered.
“Full of energy,” she murmured, feeding me a grape with effortless elegance.
“Bloody brilliant,” I muttered through a mouthful. “Now this is the life!”
The next day, I bumped into an old mate in the village square.
“How’s things?” he asked, clapping me on the shoulder.
I grinned. “Living the dream, mate. Absolute dream.”
By the weekend, Emily reminded me, “Don’t forget—you’ve got that fishing trip on Saturday.”
“You’re seriously letting me go?” I half-expected a catch.
“Of course, love. Go, relax with the lads,” she said, handing me a thick cotton robe.
That Friday, she packed my rucksack herself, tucking in homemade pasties that smelled of butter and care.
“You really don’t mind me going?” I watched her, mesmerised.
“Not at all. I insist,” she smiled.
“What if I come back empty-handed?”
“Not to worry. I’ll pop to the shops and cook us something nice,” she said, unruffled.
I stepped closer, still disbelieving. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”
“Darling, this isn’t a dream,” she whispered, her voice like a vow of endless happiness.
Out on the lake, I bragged to my mates, “This is the life, lads. Absolute perfection!”
Returning home, I dumped my muddy rucksack by the door and trudged straight to the shower. Without a word, Emily unpacked, then started washing my grimy, fish-scented clothes. By the time I emerged, the table was laid with fried fish, salads, and an ice-cold pint.
“Now *this* is how a bloke should be welcomed home,” I thought triumphantly.
The next morning, I woke expecting the usual—Emily by the bed with coffee. I stretched, turned my head… and froze. Nothing. Empty.
I stumbled to the kitchen—no breakfast, no trace of her. My bag sat by the door. Emily stepped out of the bathroom, already dressed for work.
“Aren’t you ready yet? I’m in a hurry.”
“Why’s my bag by the door?” A cold dread settled in my stomach.
“That’s it, love. Your fairy tale’s over. Goodbye.” Her voice was sharp as winter air.
“Wait!” I grabbed her wrist. “We had a deal—if I liked it after a week, I stayed. And it *was* perfect! We’re made for each other!”
“So I passed your ‘perfect wife’ test, did I?” She yanked her hand free, scorn dripping.
“With flying colours!” I pleaded.
“Funny—I was testing you too,” she said, her gaze icy. “And you failed. Perfect means good for *both*. For a week, only *you* had the good life.”
“I’ll make it up to you! Flowers, gifts, no more fishing—just name it!” Desperation clawed at me.
“Too late, darling. Should’ve thought sooner. Don’t forget your bag.”
“At least… breakfast for the road?” I grasped at straws.
“Try the café.” The door slammed shut in my face.
I stood there, gripping my bag, staring at the closed door. My perfect life had crumbled like a house of cards, leaving nothing but bitter emptiness.