Paprika

The first time it happened, it was small. My mother-in-law laughed cruelly when her friend admitted she didn’t know what paprika was. I smiled and stirred the stew, pretending I knew—but I didn’t.

Later, Delphina cornered me. “You embarrass Darian when you don’t know these things.”

Darian wasn’t home. “Working late” again. That phrase had started to feel sour.

The next day, I went to the library. I studied spices, cooking techniques, and for the first time in weeks, felt like I had control over something.

Then I found out about Keira. The texts. The photos. The lies.

When I confronted him, he crumbled. “She understands me,” he said. Delphina appeared like smoke: “You can’t leave. You’ll ruin his reputation.”

That night, I packed my bags.

Weeks later, I was planning menus at a cozy café. My paprika chicken became a bestseller. Delphina came in once. I smiled. Orson, the café owner, appeared beside me. She left without a word.

Darian came later. “She left me,” he said. “I want you back.”

“I’ve already found what I needed.”

Every time someone orders that chicken, I remember: A spice taught me to trust myself—and leave the table when I’m no longer being fed.