The first time it happened, it was so small it barely registered. My mother-in-law, Delphina, was doubled over in laughter, shaking her head at her friend Rosabel’s “ridiculous” confession: she didn’t know what paprika was made of.
I smiled politely, spoon in hand, stirring the pot of chicken stew I’d been tasked with watching. The smell of simmering broth filled the kitchen, warm and heavy, but all I could feel was a quiet heat rising in my cheeks. Because truth be told, I didn’t know either.
I kept nodding like I understood, while Delphina cackled and leaned back in her chair, basking in her own cleverness. The sunflower-patterned wallpaper behind her was faded, curling slightly at the edges, as if it had been holding on since the 1980s. The wooden spoons by the stove looked like they’d survived decades of family dinners, arguments, and silent treatments.
Darian wasn’t home yet — “working late” again. The words had started to feel heavier lately, carrying a strange, metallic taste in my mouth when I repeated them to myself. But I told myself it was just the pressure from his new promotion. Promotions mean stress, right? That’s what everyone says.
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