When my husband, Adrian, told me his old friend Lucia was coming to stay with us for a few weeks, I forced a smile and said, “That sounds lovely.”
I didn’t mean it.
I barely knew her—just stories from Adrian’s past. He described her as someone with a “strong personality.” I assumed that meant loud, maybe a little dramatic.
I was wrong.
Lucia arrived with a designer suitcase and a cloud of perfume so thick it clung to the walls like a warning. Before she even stepped inside, her voice filled our small home.
“Is this really what autumn feels like here? Back home, it’s much milder. And your air smells… strange. Fishy. Don’t you think?”
At first, I thought she meant the harbor nearby. But no—Lucia was talking about the fish sauce in my kitchen. I had just started cooking dinner, and the rich, savory scent had drifted into the hallway.
“It’s for the caramelized pork belly I’m making,” I said, keeping my tone light.
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s… very sharp, Tara. Do you always cook with such strong smells?”
“It’s how I grew up cooking,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Lots of flavor, lots of spice.”
She gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Hm. You should try real Italian food sometime.”
And that was only the beginning.
The Never-Ending Criticisms
The next few days were a nightmare. Every restaurant we took her to was “fine, but not real food.” The Thai bistro? “Too greasy.” The sushi place? “Not authentic.” The only place she didn’t completely tear apart was an Italian restaurant Adrian liked.
We ended up eating there three nights in a row.
Even then, she couldn’t resist picking everything apart. The pasta was “too soft.” The wine was “too weak.” The sauce was “confused.”
I sat there in silence, pushing limp noodles around my plate, wondering if every meal from now on would feel like a test I didn’t know I was failing.
And when I dared to order a cappuccino after noon, she gasped like I’d committed a crime.
“Tara, no! We don’t drink cappuccino after breakfast. It ruins digestion!”
I stared at her. “Well, my stomach seems fine.”
She didn’t laugh.
The Grocery Store Disaster
Things got worse at the grocery store. Lucia took it upon herself to “educate” me—loudly—on how to pronounce Italian pasta names.
“It’s not ‘pen-nay,’ Tara. It’s ‘pehn-neh.’ Say it with me. You too, Adrian!”
I gripped a bottle of olive oil, my patience wearing thin. “You do realize I’m not trying to pass as Italian, right?”
She blinked, as if the idea had never occurred to her.
That’s when I realized—she wasn’t just proud. She was impossible.
The Final Straw
After a week, I was barely holding it together. Adrian tried to smooth things over, but even he looked exhausted.
“She’s just passionate,” he told me one night.
“She’s rude,” I whispered into his sleeve.
“She doesn’t travel much,” he sighed. “Maybe she’s just overwhelmed.”
Maybe. But that didn’t make living with her any easier.
So, I decided to cook a meal that reminded me of home—something that made me feel like myself again.
I spent hours in the kitchen, slicing pork belly, crushing garlic, letting the rich scents of fish sauce, palm sugar, and chili fill the air. The house smelled like my childhood. It smelled like comfort.
Then Lucia walked in.
She stopped, sniffed, and made a face like she’d stepped into a dumpster.
“What is that smell?”
“Dinner,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
She marched over to the pot, lifted the lid, and immediately recoiled.
“You can’t seriously expect Adrian to eat this?”
“It’s one of his favorite meals,” I said, already knowing it wouldn’t matter.
“I’ll be honest, Tara,” she said, raising her voice like she wanted the whole neighborhood to hear. “This house always smells terrible. You should learn real cooking—Italian food. Something traditional. Not… this fusion mess.”
Before I could react, she grabbed the pot—and dumped the entire meal into the trash.
The Breaking Point
I stood there, frozen. My hands shook. My breath came in short, sharp bursts.
“What the hell are you doing?!” My voice cracked.
“I’ll ask Adrian to take me out for lasagna,” she said, completely unbothered. “I can’t eat this. And honestly? You should stop learning recipes from the internet. It’s embarrassing.”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw something. But before I could, Adrian spoke.
“Lucia,” his voice was sharp. “That’s not okay.”
She turned, surprised. “Adrian, I think you misunderstood—”
“No,” he cut her off. “You’ve been disrespectful since the moment you arrived. You’ve criticized Tara’s food, her choices, her culture. Enough. If this is how you treat people, maybe you shouldn’t travel.”
Lucia’s mouth fell open. “You’re taking her side?”
“I’m taking my wife’s side,” he said, without hesitation. “Always.”
The Aftermath
Lucia’s face twisted in disbelief. She grabbed her coat, stormed out, and slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
An hour later, Adrian got a text. She had booked a hotel.
No apology. Just logistics.
And honestly? Good riddance.
That night, I remade dinner—simpler this time. Adrian poured wine, set the table, and held my hand while we ate in silence.
The next day, he surprised me with a Korean cooking class. “Thought it could be fun,” he said with a grin.
We stood side by side, chopping, stirring, laughing.
Food had always been our love language. And Lucia? She never understood that.
A few weeks later, I remade that pork belly dish—this time for our cooking class potluck. Adrian grinned when someone asked for the recipe.
I just smiled.
Because now, I didn’t need to defend my food.
Or myself.