Greta’s Reckoning
The spoon slipped from Greta’s fingers and clattered onto the kitchen counter. Her husband, Everett—or Rett, as he insisted on being called—had just stormed in, ripping off his tie like it had personally offended him.
“Greta, you didn’t forget about tomorrow, did you?” His voice was sharp, impatient.
She turned slowly, gripping the edge of the sink. “I remember. What time are they coming?”
“Seven. And it’d be better if you just set the table and stayed in our room. This is a business meeting, Greta. It’s important.”
A low hum buzzed in the back of her skull—like a radio tuning to a station she hadn’t heard in years.
“I’m the lady of the house, Rett,” she said, her voice steady. Not angry. Just fact.
He scoffed, brushing past her. “Come on, Greta. ‘Lady of the house’? Just make the place look nice, serve the food, and stay out of the way, okay? I need this to go smoothly.”
And just like that, he was gone, muttering about the wine not being chilled enough.
Greta stood frozen, staring at her reflection in the kitchen window. Not at her face—but at everything behind her. The curtains she’d sewn last winter. The orchid she’d nursed back to life. The dining table she’d sanded and varnished with her own hands.
This was her home.
And somehow, she’d become nothing more than furniture.
Twelve years. That’s how long she’d been married to Rett. Twelve years of moving for his career, leaving behind her graphic design studio—the place that once smelled like ambition and eucalyptus oil. “We’re not going to get far here,” he’d said. So she packed up. Edited his pitch decks when he couldn’t string a sentence together. Hosted endless dinners with a smile stretched thin, playing the perfect wife while he “built connections.”
But the truth was simple: Rett hadn’t seen her in years. She was useful, not valued.
And now? He wanted her invisible.
She didn’t argue that night. But she remembered every word.
The next morning, she woke before him. Standing in the doorway, she watched him sleep—one arm sprawled across her empty side of the bed. He looked peaceful.
That bothered her more than it should have.
By noon, Rett was at the gym, and Greta was in motion. She scrubbed the stovetop twice, not because it was dirty, but because it gave her hands something to do.
She cooked his favorites—rosemary chicken with crispy skin, a mushroom and gruyère tart, butternut squash risotto that took an hour of constant stirring. A flourless chocolate cake, because Rett had mentioned his boss’s wife, Sheila, didn’t eat gluten.
Every dish was a performance.
She set the table with the gold-rimmed plates he only used for “impressions.” Folded the napkins into perfect half-fans. Even wore the soft brown sweater he liked—the one that made her “blend into the background.”
The house looked perfect.
At exactly 6:50 p.m., Rett emerged in his crisp blue blazer. “Nice job, Greta,” he said absently, scanning the dining room. “They’ll be impressed.”
She didn’t answer.
At 7:00 p.m., the doorbell rang.
Michael, Rett’s boss, had a handshake that could crush bones. His wife, Sheila, was elegance wrapped in expensive perfume. Behind them came Zachary and Tanya, then Louis and his husband, Darren, who already looked like they regretted coming.
“Please, come in!” Rett beamed, waving them inside. “Greta, my wife… she’ll be around.”
He didn’t introduce her. Just gestured vaguely, like she was part of the décor.
Greta smiled. Took coats. Poured wine. Played the ghost with good posture.
What Rett didn’t know?
She’d been freelancing again. Successfully. Taking calls at cafés. Answering emails from her phone. Rebuilding the career she’d left behind.
And her newest client?
Sheila.
They’d met by chance at a charity event two months ago. Sheila had hired her to redesign her entire lifestyle brand—website, logo, packaging, everything. They’d exchanged emails, mood boards, mock-ups.
Just last week, Sheila had mentioned a dinner with “her husband’s associate, Rett.”
Greta hadn’t told her it was her home.
She’d just finished the job. Sent the final files. The invoice. A thank-you note.
And now, here Sheila was.
Dinner unfolded like a script. Rett told rehearsed jokes. Michael checked his watch. The others laughed politely. Greta floated in and out, silent as a shadow.
Then, halfway through dessert, Sheila’s eyes locked onto hers.
“You look familiar,” she said, tilting her head. “Have we met before?”
The room stilled.
Greta set down the dessert tray and rested a hand on Sheila’s chair.
“I just wanted to say… thank you. It was an honor to work on your brand, Sheila. You’ve built something beautiful.”
Recognition flashed across Sheila’s face.
“Greta!? Oh my goodness! I knew I’d met you before!”
“Guilty,” Greta smiled.
*”You’re *brilliant*! I’ve had *three* investors reach out since the site launched!”*
Michael’s fork froze mid-air. Rett’s wine glass hovered, untouched.
For one delicious second, the room was silent.
Then Tanya cleared her throat. “Is that the lemon tart from Fig Bakery?”
The moment passed. Greta stepped back, poured more wine, and vanished into the kitchen.
But the damage was done.
Rett knew it.
The second the door closed behind the last guest, his mask dropped.
*”What the *hell* was that?”* he snapped, storming into the kitchen.
Greta said nothing, rinsing plates slowly.
*”You hijacked the entire dinner! Michael was too busy asking Sheila about those investors! I was trying to land a *promotion*, Greta! And you made it all about *you!”
Still, she stayed silent.
*”You’ve been working behind my back? You think this is some kind of *power play*? You’re *pathetic.”
That’s when she turned to him, water dripping from her hands.
“No,” she said, voice steady. *”It’s survival. Because you’ve been draining the life out of me, Rett. You told me to serve food and stay in our room like I’m *staff*. You didn’t introduce me. You didn’t ask about my work. You didn’t *see* me.”*
His jaw clenched.
“And here’s the thing,” she continued, drying her hands slowly. *”You think this is a rough patch? It’s not. It’s a *pattern. And I’m breaking it.”
She walked past him into the study and pulled out a manila envelope.
Already signed. Already sealed.
Six weeks later, the papers were final. Rett emailed once—about the couch. She let him have it.
The last message she ever sent him was short:
“If you treat your wife like wallpaper, don’t be shocked when she leaves the room. Enjoy your life, Rett.”
He never replied.
And she didn’t need him to.
Because Greta had already stepped into a room where she belonged.
And this time?
No one was asking her to leave.