Stay Away Ethan, Not Yours Anymore.

I stood there, watching Ethan push the plate away like it was something filthy.

“You didn’t even try,” he said. “This is the worst garlic rice I’ve ever had. Are you punishing me or just lazy?”

I swallowed hard. My hands gripped the edge of the table. Why does Ethan have to be so hard? Why does he treat me this way?

“I—I’ll make something else,” I said quickly, trying to lift the plate.

He slammed his fork down. “Don’t bother. You’ve been in the kitchen all day and this is what you made? You had one job, Avery. One.”

The tears welled up in my eyes.

Not the grocery lists. Not the scrubbing. Not the hours spent packing his lunches just right or hemming the clothes his mother said were “too cheap.” Not the years I gave up my own dreams to raise a daughter who now barely calls me mom. One job. Like I was born to serve and still couldn’t get that right.

I blinked fast as my vision blurred. I didn’t want them to see. I didn’t want to cry—not again.

“I’ll fix it,” I whispered. “I just forgot the salt.”

My mother-in-law suddenly barged in, a sweet feminine smell that made my stomach churned followed her.

Then I saw her– Anna, the perfect one that has always been compared to me. The one that was supposed to be Ethan's choice, his perfect choice walking behind her triumphantly.

The golden one.

The one their mother always said was “how a woman should be.” The one who acted and looked rich, had two nannies, and showed up only when it was convenient—usually to show me how much more she was.

“Hello everyone!” She waved her hand and I saw the expensive bracelet she wore. The exact type I had told Ethan, a few days ago, that I wanted. Instead, he had gotten it for her, and even made her wear it to spite me the more.

“I just dropped off the gift for Mom’s retirement,” she said, flashing a Rolls Royce car key in my face. “Mom deserves just the best.”

Their mother perked up immediately. “Oh, Anna, you shouldn’t have! Let me see it!”

“It’s just a Rolls Royce,” she said with a little laugh. “But I thought it was time she drove something real.”

Ethan chuckled and stood to greet her. “You’re spoiling her.”

I stayed where I was, holding the ruined dinner in my hands, watching the scene unfold before me with blurry eyes.

Anna’s eyes landed on me. “Avery, you okay?”

Before I could answer, their mother sighed loudly. “She messed up dinner again. We were just about to order out.”

Anna didn’t miss a beat. “Great! I’ve been craving that new Italian place anyway. My treat. To celebrate Mom.”

Ethan nodded. “That sounds perfect. Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

Then he turned toward me and said it so casually, it nearly knocked the air from my lungs: “You stay here. You can finish this if you want.”

I blinked. “I—”

“She doesn’t like eating out,” his mother cut in. “Too noisy, too expensive. Isn’t that right, Avery?”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The cruelty had left me speechless and I just stood there.

They were already heading to the door. Ethan didn’t even glance back.

They left laughing, voices trailing into the night.

I stood alone in the dining room, holding a plate no one would eat. The food was still warm, but everything inside me felt cold.

I sat down, picked up a fork, and forced myself to chew.

It was bland.

Too much garlic, not enough heart.

But that wasn’t why I couldn’t taste anything.

I looked around this house I’ve cleaned a thousand times. The curtains I sewed. The chairs I polished. The birthdays I hosted with handmade decorations. The nights I stayed awake waiting for Ethan to come home, pretending not to smell the perfume on his collar.

But what did it amount to?

I wasn’t a wife. Not really. I never was.

I was a fixture. A mute background. Their plaything.

The tears came quietly this time. No drama. Just soft, endless drops falling onto my untouched plate.

I washed the dishes. I swept the floor. I folded the napkins just the way his mother liked them.

Then I went upstairs and stood in front of the mirror.

I stared at the woman looking back—tired eyes, stained apron, a smear of sauce on her sleeve.

I whispered to her, “You used to be someone.”

And maybe—just maybe—she still was.