3 Dear Greta

Elena

The office air-conditioning was humming a low, sterile tune that usually helped me focus on the grant proposals piling up on my desk. But today, the hum felt like a drill. My head throbbed with the ghost of last night’s silence, the kind of silence that Marcus used to suffocate me until I apologized for breathing.

When my phone vibrated with his name, my stomach did a familiar, sickening flip.

"Marcus?" I answered, keeping my voice professional.

"Elena. My mother is coming into the city tonight. She’ll be at the house by seven."

The announcement was like a sudden drop in temperature. Greta Vance. A woman whose behavior was a sharp as a razor and twice as cold.

"Tonight? Marcus, it’s a Tuesday. I have a board meeting in the morning."

"She’s staying for dinner," he continued, ignoring my protest as if I hadn't spoken at all. "She mentioned she’s been craving Beef Wellington. The traditional way. Duxelles, crêpes, the whole arrangement. Make sure it’s handled."

I closed my eyes, picturing the hours of searing, chilling, and puff-pastry laminating that went into a proper Wellington. It was a dish designed to fail, a culinary landmine. "She knows I have a busy week. And she knows that dish is a nightmare to coordinate on short notice. Marcus, your mother doesn't even like me. Why are we doing this?"

"Don't start, Elena," he sighed, that weary, patronizing tone creeping in. "She doesn't 'dislike' you. She’s a traditional woman from a different generation. She just takes time to adjust to new people."

"We’ve been married for three years, Marcus," I retorted, my grip tightening on the receiver. "How much time does she need to adjust? Another decade? Or does she just need to wait until I’ve been sufficiently erased?"

"I am not having this conversation. Do not cause any issues tonight. I just want dinner to go well. I want peace in my home for once."

"So you’re actually coming home?" I asked, the bitterness leaking out before I could stop it.

I guess all It takes is a visit from the Queen Mother to get him to spend a night in our own bed

There was a pause. "I’ll be there at seven. Don't be late."

"Whatever," I muttered, a strange, hot prickle of defiance rising in my chest. Usually, I would be halfway to the grocery store by now, obsessing over the puff pastry. "I’ll let the chef know to stay late and prepare the meal."

"The chef?" Marcus’s voice sharpened. "You aren't making it yourself? My mother expects a home-cooked meal, Elena. It’s the least you can do."

"No," I said, the word feeling surprisingly good on my tongue. Short. Sharp. Final. "I have work. I’m not a line cook, Marcus. The chef will handle it."

I hung up before he could respond. I stared at the phone, my heart racing. It was a small rebellion, a tiny crack in the porcelain, but I felt a sudden, reckless streak of lightning in my veins. I didn't know what it was—maybe the lack of sleep, or the lingering sting of the 'Kristen' text—but I was tired of being the only one trying to keep the house from falling down.

I intentionally stayed at my desk until 6:45 PM. By the time I pulled into the driveway, it was 7:15. In our world, fifteen minutes late was a declaration of war.

I walked into the dining room to find them already seated. The Beef Wellington sat in the center of the table, a golden, flaky masterpiece that I hadn't touched. Marcus looked up, his jaw tight, his eyes promising a lecture later. Beside him sat Greta, draped in charcoal silk and pearls that probably cost more than my first car.

"There she is," Greta said, her voice like velvet wrapped around a blade. She didn't stand. She didn't even stop cutting her meat. "We thought perhaps you’d forgotten I was coming, dear. Or perhaps you got lost on the way from the office?"

"Traffic was heavy. My apologies for the delay," I said, sitting down and smoothing my skirt. I didn't sound sorry. I sounded bored.

Marcus chose not to acknowledge the tension, turning back to his mother. They launched into a conversation about the firm’s recent gala, speaking over me as if I were a ghost or a piece of particularly dull furniture. I picked at my food, the puff pastry tasting like cardboard.

Suddenly, Greta set her silver down with a delicate clink and turned her frozen gaze on me. "Remind me again, Elena... what exactly is it that you do for work? I can never quite keep it straight. Something with 'disadvantaged' women?"

I plastered a fake, bright smile on my face. "I run a non-profit that provides professional development and resources for women re-entering the workforce, Greta. We help them reclaim their independence."

"Ah, yes," Greta tilted her head, her eyes tracking the movement of my lips with clinical distaste. "Charity work. How noble. Though I imagine it must be quite draining to deal with that element all day. It certainly explains why you seem so... preoccupied."

“I’m preoccupied because-“ I opened my mouth to reply, to keep the conversation civil for the sake of the 'peace' Marcus demanded, but Greta didn't wait. She turned back to her son, her expression softening into something sickeningly sweet.

"Oh, Marcus darling, that reminds me—how is Kristen? She mentioned your lovely date the other day. Tell me, how did it go?"

The world seemed to tilt. My fork clattered against my plate, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the room. I turned my head slowly to look at my husband.

"Date?" I asked, the word coming out strangled.

Marcus didn't even flinch. He took a slow sip of his wine, swallowed, and finally looked at me. "It wasn't a date, Elena. My mother is exaggerating. We met to discuss a potential referral for the firm. Business. It wasn't a date, Mum," he repeated, his voice firm.

"Oh, call it what you like," Greta waved a manicured hand dismissively. "But the way she talked about it... so glowing. Sweet Kristen. She always was such a traditional girl. She looks like a woman who knows how to care for a home and a husband. Why didn't you just marry her, Marcus? Life would have been so much simpler."

The disrespect was so blatant it was breathtaking. I looked at Marcus, waiting. I waited for him to tell her to stop. I waited for him to remind her that I was his wife, that I was sitting right here.

"She cheated on me, Mum. Remember?" was all he said. No defense of me. No "Elena is my wife and I love her." Just a logistical correction.

I scoffed, the sound loud and jagged in the quiet room. I went back to my food, shoving a piece of beef into my mouth just to keep from screaming.

"Is there a problem with the food, Elena?" Greta asked, her voice dripping with mock innocence. "You seem a bit... agitated."

"No, Greta. It’s perfect," I said through gritted teeth.

"Of course it is. You didn't prepare it," Greta sighed, turning back to Marcus. "You see what I mean, darling? If it were Kristen, I’m sure she would have left whatever she was doing to prepare a home-cooked, delicious meal for her mother-in-law. She would have actually shown up on time, too. Some women understand that a husband’s peace of mind is the priority."

"Mum..." Marcus warned, but his voice lacked any real conviction. He was letting her dismantle me, piece by piece.

"Do you have something you’d like to say to me, Greta?" I asked. The words felt cold and heavy. This was the first time I had ever looked her in the eye during one of her sessions.

Greta blinked, surprised by the direct hit. "Yes, I do, actually. Back in my day, I always made sure my husband was happy. Stomach full. Anything he wanted, I gave it to him. I gave him peace of mind."

"And how did that turn out for you?" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. "Huh? He cheated on you and left you for a woman twenty years younger. I guess being a slave who gave him 'peace of mind' wasn't enough to keep him, was it?"

The silence that followed was absolute. Two spoons clattered into plates simultaneously. Marcus’s face turned a shade of dark, mottled red I had never seen before. Greta looked as if I had reached across the table and slapped the pearls off her neck.

I felt a brief, soaring sense of triumph, followed immediately by a crushing weight of regret. I didn't wait for the explosion.

"Excuse me," I said, standing up. "I’ve listened to enough. Goodnight, Greta." I muttered. The damage had been done.

I was the evil wife, there was no need for an immediate apology.

I walked out of the room, my heart hammering against my ribs. I made it to our bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, my hands shaking. The high was gone, replaced by the cold reality that I had just signed a warrant for a night of psychological warfare.

Less than an hour later, the door slammed open. Marcus stood there, his tie loosened, his eyes burning with a cold, focused rage.

"What the hell was that, Elena?" he hissed. "You insulted my mother. You brought up her divorce in front of her? Are you insane?"

"She started it, Marcus! She’s been sitting there for an hour acting like I don't exist, comparing me to your ex-girlfriend who—let’s not forget—cheated on you! And you just sat there and let her!"

"She is an old woman!" he roared. "She is my mother! You apologize to her. Now."

"I’ll apologize for the remark," I said, rubbing my temples. I was so tired. The defiance had drained out of me, leaving me hollow.

But we know, including Greta. That an apology won't change the fact that her husband still left her. Truth hurts, I guess.

Marcus let out a ragged sigh, his hands running through his hair. He paced the length of the room, his shadow looming large on the wall. "You’re spiraling. This... this rebellion of yours. The attitude. The coldness. It’s all connected, isn't it?"

He stopped and looked at me, and for a second, I thought I saw a flash of something like concern. But it was gone in an instant.

"I think we should see a therapist," he said.

I blinked, confused. "A therapist? You’ve spent years telling me therapy is for weak people who can't handle their own problems."

"I think we need a specialist," he clarified, his voice dropping to that smooth, manipulative register. "A sex therapist. Maybe they can fix whatever is wrong with you. Maybe they can figure out why you’re so angry and why you can't just be a normal wife in the bedroom."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I felt the "rebellious high" vanish completely. He knew exactly where to aim. He knew that my deepest fear was that I was, in fact, broken.

Something he had successfully ingrained into me. And I was starting to believe.

"Sure," I whispered, defeated. "Fine. Whatever you want."

"Good. I’ll set an appointment for tomorrow. Don't be late."He turned and walked out of the room without another word.

I stood there for a minute, staring at the empty doorway. Then, a slow, hot heat began to crawl up my neck. I wasn't just sad anymore. I was incandescently angry. I went into my walk-in closet, my hands raking through the rows of "safe" beige and navy clothes until I found it.

It was an emerald green silk shirt-dress that Maya had bought me for my birthday. It was short, the silk was thin, and the buttons started far too low. I had never worn it because Marcus had called it ugly.

I stripped off my work clothes and pulled it on. I did my makeup in three minutes—dark eyes, blood-red lips. I grabbed my keys and walked toward the bedroom door.

Marcus was in the hallway, his phone in his hand. He looked up, and his jaw practically hit the floor. "Where the hell do you think you’re going looking like that?"

"Out," I said, my voice as sharp as a diamond. “Don’t wait up.”

I didn't wait for his permission.

I walked past him, down the stairs, and out into the night, the engine of my car roaring to life as I pulled out of the driveway, leaving the perfect house and the perfect husband in my rearview mirror.