I was stirring a pot of stew when my mother-in-law burst into laughter. “You really don’t know what paprika is made of?” she asked her friend, Rosabel. I froze, spoon mid-air, realizing I didn’t know either.
Delphina, my mother-in-law, thrived on these moments—when she could prove she knew more than everyone else. Her kitchen was her kingdom, with its faded sunflower wallpaper and wooden spoons older than me. I was just the outsider who married her son, Darian.
Lately, Darian had been working late—too often. I told myself it was just stress from his promotion. But when I passed his office one afternoon and the receptionist said he’d left early with a coworker named Keira, my stomach dropped.
That night, I saw the text light up his phone: “I miss you already. Can’t wait for tomorrow. ❤️ —Keira.” My hands shook as I confronted him. He stammered, then admitted the truth—he’d been having an affair.
Delphina stormed in, not to comfort me, but to scold me. “You can’t leave him,” she snapped. “What will people think?” That was the moment I realized—I wasn’t a person to them. Just a prop in their perfect family image.
I packed my bags and moved back in with my mom. For weeks, I felt broken. Then, Rosabel—Delphina’s own friend—reached out. She introduced me to Orson, who owned a café and needed help with the menu. I started cooking again, this time for myself. My paprika chicken became a hit.
Months later, Darian showed up at the café, begging for another chance. Keira had left him. But I wasn’t the same woman who’d stood silently in his mother’s kitchen. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” I told him. “But I already have.”
Now, every time someone orders my paprika chicken, I smile. That one moment of ignorance led me to a life where I’m valued—not for what I know, but for who I am.
