When Adrian told Tara that his old friend Lucia would be staying with them, Tara expected a pleasant visit—a cultural exchange, perhaps. Instead, Lucia arrived with perfume thick as smoke and criticism sharper than knives. From the moment she stepped into their home, she mocked Tara’s cooking, wrinkled her nose at fish sauce, and declared, “You should try real Italian food.” Every meal became a battlefield, every comment a subtle jab cloaked in condescension.

Restaurants fared no better. Lucia dismissed Thai food as “too sweet,” sushi as “uninspired,” and even Italian dishes as “confused.” At the grocery store, she corrected Tara’s pronunciation of pasta names as though she were a teacher scolding a child. Adrian tried to stay neutral, calling Lucia “passionate,” but Tara could feel the edges of herself fraying under the constant scrutiny.

One evening, desperate to reclaim her peace, Tara cooked caramelized pork belly—the dish that reminded her of home. The air filled with garlic, chili, and warmth. But when Lucia entered, she wrinkled her nose again, declared it “unbearable,” and, to Tara’s horror, dumped the entire pot into the trash.

For a heartbeat, silence ruled the kitchen. Then Adrian spoke, his voice steady. “Lucia, that’s enough. You’ve disrespected my wife from the moment you arrived. You need to leave.” Stunned, Lucia packed her things and left without apology. The door closed on her perfume and her judgment.

Later, Adrian helped Tara rebuild the meal from scraps, both of them quiet but connected. The next day, he surprised her with cooking-class tickets. “I thought it could be fun,” he said softly.

Standing side by side, stirring gochujang and garlic, Tara realized something simple and profound: home isn’t where everything smells perfect. It’s where someone stands beside you when it doesn’t.