I recently moved into a small flat in a four-storey building, hopeful to get along with my neighbors. On one side lives a young family with kids, and on the other, Maria, a middle-aged woman who lives alone. Everything seemed fine—until one Friday night.
As I was making dinner, my doorbell rang. Maria stood there, frowning, and told me the garlic smell from my cooking was so strong it ruined her TV time. She asked me to stop using garlic altogether. I was stunned. I smiled politely, brushed it off, and assumed it was just a one-time complaint.
But a week later, I made my favorite chicken pasta—yes, with garlic. A few days passed, and then my landlord knocked on my door. To my shock, he said someone had complained about a “recurring odor problem.” I instantly knew who it was.
What hurt wasn’t just the complaint—it was how personal it felt. Cooking reminds me of home, of comfort, of my culture. Being asked to erase that felt like being told to erase part of myself. Now I’m caught between wanting to stand my ground and fearing more drama with Maria. All over something as simple as garlic.
