“I’m Not Your Wallpaper, Rett.”
The spoon slipped from my wet hands and clattered into the sink just as my husband, Everett—who insisted everyone call him Rett—walked into the kitchen like a storm.
“Greta, you didn’t forget about tomorrow, did you?” he barked, yanking off his tie like it had personally offended him.
I stayed calm, drying my hands. “I remember. What time are they coming?”
“Seven,” he grunted. “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.”
Something inside my head buzzed—a deep hum, like a warning siren stuck on low volume.
“I’m the lady of the house, Rett,” I said softly. I wasn’t being rude or angry. I was just stating a fact.
Rett laughed, a short, dry sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “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.”
Then, without another word, he muttered about the wine not being chilled and stomped into the bedroom like a king retreating to his castle.
I stood there, staring at the kitchen window—not at myself, but everything around me. The curtains I sewed by hand. The orchid I nursed back to life. The wooden table I sanded and re-varnished on my own last summer.
This was my home.
So why did I feel like a ghost in it?
Rett and I had been married for twelve years. In that time, I had followed him across two states, giving up everything I had built for myself—my friends, my clients, my graphic design studio that smelled like eucalyptus oil and fresh printer ink.
“I need to be in a bigger pond, Greta. That’s where the big fish are,” Rett once said, like my whole world was just a small puddle.
I had helped him shape his pitch decks, rewriting his awful sentences so they made sense. I hosted his endless dinner parties, smiling even when my feet were aching. I clapped when his ideas got approved—even if they were partly mine.
But to Rett, I wasn’t a partner. I was support staff. And now, he wanted me to act like I didn’t exist.
That night, I said nothing. But inside me, something changed. Something clicked.
The next morning, I woke up early. Rett was still sleeping, sprawled across the bed like a man who didn’t have a single care in the world.
That made me angry.
He had dropped all those rude orders on me and fallen asleep like nothing happened, while I had laid awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I had turned into someone who needed permission to be in her own living room.
By the time Rett left for the gym, I was already in full motion.
I scrubbed every inch of the house like my life depended on it. Not because it was dirty—but because I needed to move. I needed to breathe.
I cooked his favorite dishes like a professional chef: rosemary chicken with crispy skin, a mushroom and gruyère tart, and a butternut squash risotto that had to be stirred constantly for an hour. I even made a fancy salad no one would eat and a flourless chocolate cake—because Rett once said his boss’s wife, Sheila, didn’t do gluten.
I wore the brown sweater he liked. The one he said made me “blend into the background.”
At 6:50 p.m., Rett strolled out of the bedroom, hair perfect, blazer pressed.
“Nice job, Greta,” he said, looking around the dining room. “They’ll be impressed.”
I didn’t say anything. I just adjusted a wine glass and stepped aside.
At 7:00 p.m. sharp, the doorbell rang.
Rett opened the door like a game show host. “Come in, come in! Greta—my wife—she’ll be around.”
He didn’t even introduce me properly. Just waved his hand at me like I was a lamp in the corner.
I smiled anyway. I took coats, poured wine, handed out napkins. I floated through the night like I wasn’t really there.
At least, that’s what he thought.
Because Rett didn’t know my secret.
For the past few months, I had been freelancing again. Quietly. Successfully. I worked from cafés, answered emails on my phone, and designed entire brand packages from a laptop he never even noticed.
And one of my biggest clients? Sheila.
Yes—that Sheila. The woman now sitting at our table.
We met at a charity event two months earlier, bonding over how ugly the event poster looked. I gave her my card—with my maiden name on it. No one connected me to Rett.
She hired me to design her entire lifestyle brand: the website, the packaging, the logo. Everything.
Just last week, she’d mentioned, “I’ve got a dinner with my husband’s associate, Rett, or something like that.”
I didn’t say a word.
I made sure our project wrapped before this dinner. I sent her everything—final designs, website credentials, even a thank-you discount.
Now here we were.
Dinner went just as fake as I expected. Rett cracked his cheesy rehearsed jokes. Everyone fake-laughed. I kept pouring drinks, gliding in and out like a well-trained ghost.
Then came dessert.
I brought out Sheila’s lemon tart and my chocolate cake. As I gently set the tray down, Sheila looked up and smiled.
“The food is absolutely divine,” she said. “You’re very talented in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “I’m glad it turned out well.”
“But… aren’t you joining us? You’ve done everything, and you’re not even sitting down?”
I shrugged. “It’s more of a background role for me tonight.”
She tilted her head. “You look familiar… Have we met before?”
My heart thudded.
I stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on the back of her chair.
“I just wanted to say… thank you. It was an honor working on your brand, Sheila. You’ve built something beautiful.”
Her eyes lit up. “Greta?! Oh my goodness! I knew I’d seen you before!”
“Guilty,” I smiled.
“You’re brilliant!” she said, beaming. “I didn’t even realize… Your work is stunning. I’ve had three investors reach out since we launched! I’m so sorry we never got to Zoom properly—was always rushing between meetings. We just stuck to emails, right?”
Rett froze mid-sip. Michael’s fork hovered mid-air.
For a full, magical second, the room was silent.
Then Tanya cleared her throat. “Is that the lemon tart from Fig Bakery? It just melts in your mouth!”
The conversation shifted, and I let it. I refilled glasses and walked back to the kitchen, smiling to myself.
The moment had landed.
And Rett knew it.
Later, after everyone left, the air in the house changed like someone turned off a radio.
Rett came storming in.
“What the hell was that?” he growled.
I calmly rinsed dessert plates.
“You hijacked the dinner!” he snapped. “Michael was too busy asking Sheila about her website. I was trying to get promoted, Greta. You made it all about you! You embarrassed me!”
I stayed quiet.
“You’ve been working behind my back? What is this—some power move? You’re pathetic.”
I turned to face him, hands dripping.
“No. It’s called survival. You’ve been draining the life out of me, Rett. You treat me like furniture. Tonight, you told me to serve and hide. You didn’t even introduce me.”
His mouth clamped shut.
“You think this is a rough patch?” I said, drying my hands. “It’s not. It’s a pattern. And I’m done playing my part in it.”
I walked past him, straight into the study, and pulled a sealed manila envelope from the drawer.
The divorce papers were already signed.
We didn’t have kids. No messy custody, no explaining. Just a shared house and shared silence.
Rett didn’t say a word the rest of the night.
The next morning, he was gone. I didn’t ask where.
I had a meeting with a new client—a woman who ran a candle company and wanted her brand to feel like “dusk and warm bread.”
Afterward, I had lunch by myself. I sat outside. I ordered whatever I wanted. I took notes in a leather planner with my name embossed on the front.
Six weeks later, the divorce was final.
Rett emailed once to ask about the couch.
I let him keep it.
I turned the study into my studio.
The last message I ever sent him was simple:
“If you treat your wife like wallpaper, don’t be shocked when she decides to leave the room entirely. Enjoy your life, Rett.”
He never replied.
And I didn’t need him to.
Because now—I was finally living in a room where I belonged.
And this time, no one could ask me to leave.
