The first time it happened, it was small. My mother-in-law, Delphina, mocked her friend Rosabel for not knowing what paprika was. I smiled and stirred the stew, cheeks burning — I didn’t know either. When Rosabel left, Delphina turned to me. “You should know these things. You embarrass Darian when you don’t.” Her words stuck like thorns. The next day, I went to the library and devoured books on spices. I learned that paprika came from ground peppers — a small, sweet victory. On the way home, I stopped by Darian’s office to surprise him.
But the receptionist said he’d gone to lunch with someone named Keira. Days later, I found messages on his phone: I miss you already. ❤️ —Keira. My hands went cold. When I confronted him, he crumbled. “She understands me. I felt trapped—with you and my mom.” Delphina appeared in the doorway. “You can’t leave him,” she hissed. “You’ll ruin his reputation.”
That night, I packed my bags. Weeks later, I found joy again—cooking classes, laughter, freedom. Rosabel introduced me to Orson, who owned a cozy café. He hired me, and my paprika chicken became the bestseller. One afternoon, Delphina walked in. “I didn’t know you worked here,” she said. “I do,” I smiled.
“And I love it.”Months later, Darian came back. “Keira left me. I want you back.” I shook my head. “I’ve already found what I needed.” Now, every time someone orders my paprika chicken, I smile. That spice taught me everything I needed to know about strength, self-worth, and starting over.