The first time it happened, it was small—my mother-in-law, Delphina, laughed at her friend Rosabel for not knowing what paprika was made of. I smiled politely, though I didn’t know either. Delphina mocked me later, saying I embarrassed my husband, Darian.

Feeling lost, I went to the library to learn about spices, hoping to regain control. On my way home, I found out Darian had left early with someone named Keira—someone I’d never heard of.

At home, he barely noticed the paprika chicken I’d made. Then his phone buzzed at 2 a.m.—a message from Keira. I confronted him and found months of texts and photos. He admitted he felt trapped and had turned to her.

Delphina warned me not to leave, fearing his reputation. That night, I packed my bags and left.

Weeks later, I found joy teaching cooking and met Orson, who hired me at his café. My paprika chicken became a hit. When Delphina appeared coldly at the café, I stood proud.

Darian returned, asking for forgiveness. I said no. I had found myself—and I deserved more.