The laughter still haunts me. That cruel, delighted cackle as my mother-in-law mocked her friend’s ignorance about paprika. I stood there nodding along, too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know either.
That kitchen – all yellowed wallpaper and judgment – became ground zero for my awakening. Delphina’s constant digs about how I “embarrassed” her precious Darian. The way her eyes tracked my every move, finding me lacking. And Darian, my husband of one year, who was suddenly working so many late nights.
After the paprika incident, I became a woman possessed. I studied spices like my marriage depended on it. Maybe it did. The library books led me past Darian’s office one afternoon, where I saw him through a restaurant window, leaning close to a woman who wasn’t me.
The text message that night – “I miss you already” – shattered whatever illusions remained. His confession came with excuses: feeling “trapped,” needing “understanding.” Delphina’s reaction was worse – concern only for how divorce would look, never for my broken heart.
Leaving was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Showing up at my mother’s doorstep with suitcases and shame. But then came the cooking classes, the new friends, Rosabel’s unexpected kindness. Orson’s café became my sanctuary, his belief in me the balm I needed.
When Darian returned months later, remorseful and alone, I was someone new. Someone who knew her worth extended far beyond spice knowledge or wifely duties. Someone who could say no and mean it.
That’s the funny thing about rock bottom – it makes excellent foundation for rebuilding. These days, when customers rave about my paprika chicken, I smile at how far I’ve come. The woman who didn’t know about paprika now runs her own kitchen, on her own terms.
