My daughter-in-law is the perfect wife, but yesterday I found a shoebox under her bed filled with newspaper clippings about me and my family from the past twenty years.
The dust in their bedroom was oddly light, almost weightless. As I ran the cloth over the dresser, a grey cloud rose, sparkling in the sunlight that crept through the blinds.
Paul and Helen 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.
Ive always been happy to help them. Helen wasnt just a daughter-in-law to meshed become the daughter I never had.
Quiet, attentive, always knowing just what to say. She practically glowed beside my son.
Deciding to mop the floor while I was at it, I pulled back the curtains to let in more light. And thats when I saw it.
An ordinary shoebox, shoved deep beneath the bed, nearly touching the wall. Probably old things Helen meant to throw away. Without thinking, I reached for it, not wanting it to get in the way of cleaning.
The box was unexpectedly heavy. Curiositythat foolish, inconvenient feelingmade me sit on the edge of the bed and lift the lid.
Inside, there were no shoes, no old letters. Just neat, tightly packed stacks of newspaper clippings. 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 Spencer Awarded Research Grant*. The article had been circled in red marker. I smiled.
Yes, that was only six months ago. Id been so proud.
But beneath it lay another, much older. *Businessman George Spencer Opens New Branch*. That was my husband, fifteen years ago. I barely remembered that daythe reporters, the camera flashes.
My heart lurched when I saw the next one. A tiny social column snippet from twenty years back. *Eleanor Spencer Shines at Charity Gala in Local Designer Gown.* The photo showed meyoung, smiling.
I leafed through them, one by one. Paul winning his school chemistry competition. An article about the car accident my husband had ten years agoonly scratches, but the headline was dramatic.
A note about me winning the town gardening contest. Dozens, if not hundreds, of fragments of our lives. Someonea strangerhad methodically, year after year, assembled an archive of my family.
Why? Why would Helen, this sweet, sunny girl, keep all this? Part of me refused to believe it. Maybe it was for a project? A collage 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, truly.
But yesterday, in their bedroom, I found a shoebox under the bed filled with newspaper clippings about me and my family from the past 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, and their voices echoed in the halltheyd returned early.
I sat on their bedroom floor, surrounded by paper ghosts of the past, desperately trying to figure out how to hide what I could never forget.
Panic crashed over me like an icy wave. I shoved the clippings back into the box, not caring about order. The lid wouldnt close properlysome corner was sticking out. The voices grew nearer.
“Mum, are you here?” Paul called from the living room.
With a final push, I slid the box back under the bed, trying to wedge it into the same dark space by the wall. I stood, brushing off my knees, and grabbed the cloth. My heart hammered in my throat.
“Yes, Paul! Just finishing up!” I called back, willing my voice steady.
The door opened. Helen stood there. Same smile, same warm eyes. But for the first time in their three years of marriage, that smile sent a chill down my spine.
“Eleanor, you shouldnt have gone to all this trouble,” she said, her voice smooth as honey. “We couldve done it ourselves.”
“Oh, its nothing, Helen. The filter arrivedI signed for it.”
She stepped inside, Paul following. He hugged me, kissed my cheek, completely oblivious to my state.
Hed always been like thisa little absent-minded, lost in his academic world.
“Mum, youre the best. We brought you your favourite walnut cheese.”
I forced a smile, taking the bag from him. My eyes kept flicking back to Helen.
She scanned the room quickly, her gaze sharp. Did it linger, just for a second, on that spot under the bed?
We moved to the kitchen. While Helen brewed herbal tea and Paul unpacked, I tried to steady myself. I needed to say something, test the waters.
“Youll never guessI read today theyre building a huge business centre where the old factory used to be,” I said casually. “Made me think of when George opened his first branch. The papers covered it, remember, Paul? You were little.”
Paul mumbled something, distracted by his phone. Helen froze, her back to mejust for a moment. Then she turned slowly, handing me a cup.
“Of course we remember,” she said softly, but pointedly. “Those things arent forgotten. Theyre part of your familys history. And history should be known. Respected.”
Her fingers around the cup were perfectlong, delicate, with immaculate manicure. The polish was a deep, blood-red.
Just like the marker circling the article about Pauls grant.
I looked away, my skin prickling. A coincidence. Just a stupid coincidence. There were thousands of red nail polishes.
Then she added, meeting my eyes directly:
“I believe the past shapes our present. Every little thing, every newspaper clipping, every victory or setbackit all adds up to the bigger picture. And its important not to lose a single piece.”
She smiled. And in that perfect, loving smile, I saw the bared teeth of a collector, satisfied her most prized possession was still in place.
The following days passed in a fog. I tried talking to my husband.
“George, do you remember that accident ten years ago? When you still drove the old car?”
He looked up from his paperwork, peering over his glasses.
“What accident? Oh, the scratch on the bumper? Cant recall, Eleanor. Busy times. Why?”
He didnt remember. Or pretended not to. I couldnt shake that clipping with its bold headline. Something about it wasnt right.
I couldnt take it anymore. On Saturday, while Paul was at a conference, I went to Helens. Unannounced.
She opened the door in a plain dressing gown, no makeup, a flicker of alarm in her eyes.
“Eleanor? Is everything all right?”
“No, Helen. Its not.” I pushed past her, straight to the bedroom. My hands shook, but I knew what I was doing. I knelt and pulled out the box. “Explain.”
I spilled the contents onto the bed. Dozens of eyes stared back from yellowed pages. Our faces. Our lives.
Helen didnt scramble for excuses. She walked over slowly, sat on the edge of the bed, and picked up one of the oldest clippingsthe one where my husband, George, triumphantly shook hands with a business partner.
“This man was Victor Lowell,” she said quietly. “He was your husbands partner. My father.”
I froze.
“They started together. Built the company side by side. But then your husband decided he didnt need a partner.”
Hed forged documents, siphoned assets. Her father was left with nothing. He tried to sue, but against George Spencer, he never stood a chance.
Her voice was flat, emotionless, like she was reciting facts.
“A year later, my father was in an accident. Your husband was driving the other car. The papers said my father was drunk. But that was a lie. He never drank. After that, he couldnt walk again.”
She looked up. No hatred in her eyesjust endless, burning exhaustion.
“I didnt collect these out of hate. I needed to understand. Understand your family. I met Paul by chance, honestly. And I fell in love with him. Hes not like his father. Hes good.”
She had to be sure he wouldnt repeat history. That her child wouldnt grow up in a family built on lies.
She was the perfect wifenot because she kept a spotless home, but because she fought to protect the future by facing the past.
I sat beside her on the bed, surrounded by clippingsour shared history, it turned out. For the first time in years, I saw my life without rose-tinted glasses.
“What are you going to do?” I whispered.
“Nothing,” Helen said, smilingreally smiling, no mask. “Ive already done it.”
Shed married the man she loved. And she knew hed never become his father. The clippings? Just paper.
She gathered them, tossed them back
