My daughter-in-law was the perfect wifeuntil yesterday, when I found a shoebox beneath her bed filled with newspaper clippings about me and my family from the last twenty years.
The dust in their bedroom was oddly light, almost weightless, as I ran a cloth over the dresser. A grey cloud billowed up, glittering in the sunlight that slipped through the blinds.
Paul and Elaine had gone away for the weekend, and theyd asked me to water the plants and accept a deliverya new water filter. Of course, I agreed.
Id always been happy to help them. Elaine wasnt just a daughter-in-law to meshe was the daughter Id never had. Quiet, thoughtful, always knowing just what to say. She shone beside my son.
Deciding to wipe the floor while I was there, I pushed back the curtains for more light. And thats when I saw it.
An ordinary shoebox, shoved deep beneath the bed, almost against the wall. Probably old things Elaine meant to throw out. My hand reached for it automatically, to move it out of the way.
The box was unexpectedly heavy. Curiosityfoolish, intrusivemade me sit on the edge of the bed and lift the lid. Inside werent shoes or old letters. Neat, tight stacks of newspaper clippings lay there. Some fresh, others yellowed with age, smelling of old paper and glue.
I picked up the top one. A headline from the local paper: *Young Scientist Paul Whitmore Awarded Research Grant*. The article was circled in red marker. I smiled.
Yes, that was just six months ago. Id been so proud of him.
But beneath it lay another, much older. *Businessman Edward Whitmore Expands Firm to Manchester*. That was my husband, fifteen years ago. I barely remembered the dayreporters, camera flashes.
My heart lurched at the next one. A tiny snippet from a society column, twenty years past. *Margaret Whitmore Dazzles at Charity Gala in Local Designer Gown.* There I wasyoung, smiling.
I sifted through them. Paul winning his school chemistry competition. An article about the car crash Edward had walked away from ten years agojust scratches, but the headline had been dramatic.
A note about my gardening club prize. Dozens, if not hundreds, of fragments of our lives. Someone had methodically, year by year, assembled an archive of my family.
Why? Why would Elaine, sweet, sunny Elaine, keep all this? Part of me refused to believe. Maybe it was for a project? A scrapbook for an anniversary? But some clippings were laminated, as if meant to last forever.
Id always thought my daughter-in-law was the perfect wife for my son. A gift from fate, no less.
But yesterday, in their bedroom, I found a shoebox beneath the bed filled with clippings about me and my family from the last twenty years. And now, looking at her smiling face in the wedding photo on the wall, I saw a mask.
The front door clicked open, their voices echoing in the halltheyd returned early.
And there I sat, on the floor of their bedroom, surrounded by paper ghosts of the past, desperately trying to understand how to hide what I could never forget.
Panic crashed over me like ice water. I shoved the clippings back into the box, careless of order. The lid wouldnt closea corner stuck out. The voices grew nearer.
“Mum? You here?” Paul called from the living room.
I slammed the lid down, shoved the box back under the bed, scrabbling to push it into the same dark corner. I stood, knees aching, clutching the dusting cloth. My heart hammered in my throat.
“Yes, love! Just finishing up!” I called back, forcing steadiness into my voice.
The door opened. Elaine stood there. Same smile, same warm eyes. But for the first time in their three years of marriage, that smile sent a chill through me.
“Margaret, you shouldnt have gone to so much trouble,” she said, honey-sweet.
“Oh, it was nothing, darling. The filter arrivedI signed for it.”
She stepped inside, Paul following. He hugged me, kissed my cheek, oblivious to my tension.
Always distracted, lost in his research.
“Mum, youre the best. We brought you that walnut cheese you love.”
I forced a smile, taking the bag. My eyes kept flicking back to Elaine.
Her gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing. Did it linger, just for a second, on the spot beneath the bed?
We moved to the kitchen. While Elaine brewed herbal tea and Paul unpacked, I tried to steady myself. I needed to say something, test the waters.
“Did you see the news? Theyre building a massive business park where the old factory was,” I said, casual. “Made me think of when Edward opened his first branch. The papers covered itremember, Paul? You were little.”
Paul grunted, absorbed in his phone. Elaine froze, her back to me. Then she turned, handing me a cup.
“Of course we remember,” she said softly, deliberately. “Those things stay with you. Its your familys history. And history should be known. Respected.”
Her fingers around the cup were perfect. Long, elegant, with flawless manicured nails. The polish was a deep, blood-red. Just like the marker circling Pauls grant article.
I looked away, skin prickling. A coincidence. Just a stupid coincidence. There were thousands of red polishes.
Then she added, meeting my eyes:
“Ive always believed the past shapes the present. Every little thingevery news clipping, every triumph or setbackit all adds up to the bigger picture. And its so important not to lose a single piece.”
She smiled. And beneath that perfect, loving smile, I saw the bared teeth of a collector, satisfied her most prized exhibit was still in place.
The next days passed in a haze. I tried talking to Edward.
“Do you remember that car crash ten years ago? The one in your old Rover?”
He glanced up from his paperwork, peering over his glasses.
“What crash? Oh, the bumper scratch? Barely remember, love. Busy times. Why?”
He didnt recall. Or pretended not to. But I couldnt shake the memory of that dramatic headline. Something about it wasnt right.
I couldnt take it anymore. That Saturday, while Paul was at a conference, I went to Elaines. Unannounced.
She opened the door in a simple dressing gown, makeup-free, alarm flashing in her eyes.
“Margaret? Is everything alright?”
“No, Elaine. Its not.” I pushed past her, straight to the bedroom. My hands shook, but I knew what I was doing. I knelt, pulled out the box. “Explain.”
I spilled the contents onto the duvet. Dozens of eyes stared up from yellowed pages. Our faces. Our lives.
Elaine didnt scramble for excuses. She sat slowly on the beds edge, picked up one of the oldest clippingsEdward shaking hands with a business partner after some deal.
“This man was Victor Langley,” she said quietly. “Your husbands partner. My father.”
I went still.
“They started the company together. Equal shares. Then then your husband decided he didnt need a partner.”
Hed falsified documents, siphoned assets. Her father was left with nothing. He tried to sue, but against Edward Whitmore, he had no chance.
She spoke evenly, emotionless, like a lecturer.
“A year later, my father was in an accident. The other driver was your husband. The papers said my father was drunk. A lie. He never drank. After that, he couldnt walk again.”
She looked up. No hatred in her eyes. Just endless, burning exhaustion.
“I didnt collect these out of hate. I needed to understand. Understand your family. Meeting Paul was an accident, truly. And I love him. Hes not like his father. Hes good.”
She had to be sure he wouldnt repeat history. She tracked our every move, every success, to see what we were made of.
She smiled bitterly.
“I just needed to know history wouldnt repeat. That my childyour grandchildwouldnt grow up in a family built on lies.”
I looked at herthe fragile-seeming girl whod conducted her own investigation, her private war for truth. The perfect wife.
Her perfection wasnt in cooking or keeping house. It was in her determination to protect the future by facing the past.
I sat beside her on the bed amid the scattered clippingsour shared history, it turned out. For the first time in years, I saw my life without rose-tinted glasses. The cracks in our familys perfect façade.
“What will you do?” I whispered.
“Nothing,” she said, smilingreally smilingfor the first time. “Ive already done it.”
Shed married the man she loved. And she knew hed never become his father. This? Just paper. Junk.
She swept the clippings back into the box. My perfect daughter-in-law. My girl.
