Horror Stories

Mr. Right

I love my husband, and I know he loves me.

It’s there everywhere I look, from the moment I wake to his sleep-softened smile and his fingertips tracing my jawline, to the Post-Its he leaves around the house when he’s at work, silly sweet notes to make me smile.

It’s in the texts that say he’s always thinking of me, the solid warmth of his arms when he comes home and the tenderness in his eyes, the little presents he brings home – earrings, hairclips, once even a bracelet of pearls glowing like the moon.

I never thought I’d find someone like him, someone who never shouts and who doesn’t leave bruises, who doesn’t mind if the house isn’t spotless or if I’ve put on five pounds. He doesn’t call me useless or go through my phone when I’m asleep, searching for evidence that I’m having an affair with every man I’ve ever met.

Oh, he’s not perfect, I know. I’ve seen the lipstick smudges on his shirts, the fading scratches on his skin, once even a bite mark. I know there’s some things I just can’t give him, but it makes what we have all the more special – they’ll never be the woman who shares his life, who’s waiting for him at home, who he can’t live without.

The one he admits he’s always thinking of, whenever he’s with them. I know they’re nothing to him, really.

So when he comes home late, worn out and sweat-drenched, I kiss him hello and put his clothes in the washing machine while he showers away all the grime, make sure the dinner’s hot and ready for him.

Sympathise with the stories about his awful boss, pack his lunch and set out his clothes for tomorrow. Find a space for the silver necklace in his collection. Take off the laundry and make sure the bloodstains are gone from his favourite shirt. Make sure the bins are put out before they start to smell.

And when he holds me in his arms each night, I’m so thankful to be the one he chose to share his life.