The first time it happened, it felt almost laughable. My mother-in-law, Delphina, sneered at her friend Rosabel for not knowing that paprika comes from peppers. I froze, ashamed—I hadn’t known either. Later, Delphina cornered me: “You embarrass Darian when you don’t know things.” Her words cut deeper than I expected, a quiet dagger I couldn’t shrug off.
Determined not to feel that small again, I buried myself in books at the library, learning everything I could about spices. One afternoon, full of excitement, I decided to surprise Darian at his office with a new recipe. But the receptionist said he’d left early with someone named Keira. That evening, he returned home cold and distant, ignoring the paprika chicken I’d poured my heart into.
Days later, his phone buzzed: I miss you already. Can’t wait for tomorrow ❤️ — Keira. I confronted him, and the truth fell like a hammer—he was having an affair. He claimed Keira “understood” him, that he felt “trapped” by me and his mother. Delphina, listening from the hallway, insisted I stay for the sake of his reputation. In that instant, I realized the harsh truth: I wasn’t a partner. I was just a prop.
I packed my things and moved in with my mother. I returned to what made me feel alive—cooking. I took classes, experimented fearlessly, and soon found myself helping Orson, a local café owner, craft his menu. My paprika chicken, once a symbol of humiliation, became the café’s bestseller.
When Darian later begged me to come back, I refused. What had started as a simple embarrassment over a spice revealed a painful truth—but it also gave me something priceless: freedom, strength, and a life that was truly mine.
