Panting, with several heavy bags from the supermarket in each hand, she struggled to fit the key into the lock. When she finally managed it, she pushed the door open with her leg, stepped inside, and closed it with her back. Careful not to break the fragile items, she slid down to the floor with the bags. Fourth floor. On good days, she would think it was great — a regular exercise, a way to stay in shape, to keep her legs toned. Today was not that day.

She quickly changed into her at-home clothes, a complete visual and color disharmony of cozy pieces. The bra was off, and that was the only relief of the day.

She was still angry. Standing in her boss’s office earlier, she had kept a calm face and just nodded. At least she had learned that much — not to waste words when the situation was already decided and hopeless.

She couldn’t afford to lose that job. She had no fallback plan. The numbers in her bank account clearly showed she couldn’t survive even a month without income. The high hopes she’d had when she enthusiastically submitted the proposal were now scattered into thin air. She had no option but to silently agree to the unpaid overtime so others could take credit for her ideas. The salary talk was conveniently postponed until the project’s completion, which could take months.

When she went back to her desk, she felt as if she melted into the sterile beige office furniture, her body becoming just another piece of the room’s inventory, invisible just like the boss’s words that had put her in her place without saying so.

“People with choices are never angry.”

She thought of it throughout the day, as small situations continued to push her in directions she didn’t want to go.

“It’s ok,” that’s all she said when a colleague brought her the wrong sandwich for lunch. “Where is the line between politeness and spineless obedience?” she wondered while picking out the lettuce and tomato. That’s something she had wanted to change about herself, but no self-help book or expert advice had ever taken root in practice. She kept waiting for some kind of miracle to make that profound shift.

The white kitchen cabinets that looked like boring office furniture were packed with colorful jars, tea boxes and optimistic cups. On the table there were potted marigolds. When the warm light fell on the flowers, they looked like small suns, unapologetically vibrant. She cleared away the morning cups and started to unpack the bags. Again, she had bought things that required cooking. She rolled her eyes at her wannabe healthy-eating self. At least she had enough sense to buy a ready dinner for tonight.

She served a schnitzel on a plate, cut a piece of soft cheese, and tore off a chunk of baguette. The last item to complete the meal was a jar of horseradish.

After a few taps on the bottom, she wedged the tip of the knife under the lid’s edge and twisted until the seal snapped with a soft pop. The jar opened easily after that.

The sharp, recognizable smell filled the air. She dug into the jar, lifted the spoon, and looked at the faintly beige texture. Not chunky, not smooth. It looked harmless. Almost modest.

“You are not so special, like wasabi, even though you taste almost the same. You don’t grow in pristine waters, you’re not treated as royalty. You come from mud.”

She remembered how disappointed she had been when she learned that most of the “wasabi” served outside Japan was actually horseradish mixed with mustard and green dye.

She stuffed a spoonful into her mouth. Although it wasn’t particularly strong, the heat immediately hit her throat and climbed into her sinuses. Tears filled her eyes, and her nose started to run. It was like a slap and a warm hug at the same time.

In a flash, she remembered her grandfather making it from scratch especially for her for the holidays. He kept the jar tightly closed so it wouldn’t lose its strength. When she cried while eating it, imitating a dragon puffing fire, they would laugh. His face would light up with joy. She had been happy then, certain she would always be a feisty, unafraid creature.

That horseradish was special. A peasant-warrior. Loud. Protective. It didn’t ask for perfect conditions, yet it was able to grow strong.

She sniffed and puffed as she chewed pieces of schnitzel overloaded with horseradish. The bread did nothing to douse the fire building with each bite.

She wondered when she had allowed the dragon to turn into a lizard. Why was she belittling her own nature, the strength of a root that could survive the harshest winter?

Through watery eyes, the blurred image of the jar in front of her dissolved into the green table mat. She had never pitched herself the way she did the company’s projects. She knew well: packaging sells. When her sight cleared, she gazed at the sleeve of her oversized hoodie she’d worn for years and wiped her face with it.

“I just need a hint of green,” she said quietly to the photos of bucket-list landscapes pinned to the fridge.

Before finishing the meal, she stood up and went to her laptop. She opened her email and clicked “Compose.”

She was no longer angry, but the words she was about to write were like jarred horseradish — domesticated yet sharp enough to change the color. The sentences she held in her throat finally rose from a puff to a small fire through the keyboard staccato that filled the room.