The spoon I was drying slipped from my hand when my husband, Vince, or Vin as he insisted on being called, walked in. “Holly, you didn’t forget about tomorrow, did you?” Vin stormed into the kitchen, pulling off his tie like it had annoyed him. “I remember,” I said calmly, glancing back.
“What time are they coming?”
“Seven. It’d be best if you set the table and stayed in our room. This is a work dinner, Holly.
It’s a big deal.”
A buzz started in my head, like a radio tuning to something sharp. “I’m the woman of this house, Vin,” I said. My voice was steady, just stating a fact.
Vin snorted, letting out a cold laugh as he walked past me. “Come on, Holly. Woman of the house?
Just make everything look good, serve the food, and stay out of the way, okay? I need this to go well.”
Then, as if he hadn’t just cut me down, he mumbled something about the wine not being cold and headed to the bedroom. I stood there a long time, staring at my reflection in the kitchen window.
Not my face, but the background—the curtains I sewed last winter, the orchid I kept alive despite everything, the table I refinished myself. This was my home. And somehow, I’d become a piece of furniture.
Vin and I had been married for 12 years. I’d moved twice for his job, leaving behind my hometown and the clients I’d spent years building ties with. I gave up my graphic design studio, a place that once smelled of dreams and eucalyptus oil, because Vin said the timing wasn’t right.
“I need to be in a new state, Holly. I need the big opportunities. We won’t get anywhere here,” he’d said.
I edited his pitch decks when he couldn’t write a clear sentence, though he never gave me credit. I hosted dinner after dinner with a tired smile, always playing the perfect wife so he could “make connections.”
But the truth was clear. He hadn’t really seen me in years.
I was useful, not valued. And now, he wanted me invisible. I didn’t argue that night.
I didn’t even react. But I remembered every word. The next morning, I woke before him.
I stood in our bedroom doorway, watching him sleep, one hand spread across the empty side of the bed. He looked peaceful. That bothered me more than it should.
He’d dumped his demands and slept soundly, while I lay awake thinking about the woman I used to be, and how I’d become someone who needed permission to be in her own living room. By noon, Vin was at the gym, and I was busy. I cleaned every room like it was a test I had to ace.
I scrubbed the stovetop twice, not because it was dirty, but because it kept my hands moving. I cooked Vin’s favorites: rosemary chicken thighs with crispy skin, a mushroom and gruyère tart, and a butternut squash risotto that took an hour of stirring. I made a salad I knew no one would touch and a flourless chocolate cake because Vin once said Tom’s wife, Ellen, didn’t eat gluten.
Every dish felt like a show. I was exhausted before anyone arrived. I set the table with the gold-rimmed plates Vin saved for “impressing people.” I trimmed the candle wicks, folded linen napkins into neat half-fans, and arranged the charcuterie board like it was a work of art.
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