He wasn’t what you expected at all…
“Mum and Dad are coming this weekend,” said Emily, trying to sound casual. “They really want to meet you.”
Thomas, in the middle of spreading strawberry jam on his toast, froze. He set the knife down slowly.
“Brilliant,” he replied, forcing a smile. “I’m… I’m glad. Really.”
But Emily knew him too well. She noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes darted away.
“Tom, it’ll be fine. They’ll like you—you’ll see,” she murmured, squeezing his hand.
He smirked, but his eyes flickered with unease.
“Em, your parents are proper, posh people… And look at me—beard, tattoos, the earring. To them, I’m a nightmare.”
“To me, you’re the kindest man alive,” Emily said firmly. “They’ll see that. Just wait.”
The week raced by in a blur of preparations. Emily cleaned the flat, rehearsed her parents’ favourite recipes, and polished everything in sight. Thomas helped quietly—hanging new curtains, buying fresh flowers—but every evening, he slipped onto the balcony to smoke, lost in thought.
Then came the day. Emily rearranged the table settings for the tenth time. Thomas, in a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, stood before the mirror, smoothing his hair.
The buzzer rang.
“I’ll get it,” he mumbled and stepped into the hallway.
Her parents stood at the door—Margaret and Henry. Her mother’s eyes widened as if seeing a ghost. Her father frowned, glaring from Thomas’s tattooed arms to the silver hoop in his ear.
“Hello,” Thomas said evenly, offering his hand. “I’m Thomas. Pleasure to meet you.”
After a pause, Henry shook it stiffly. Margaret, sensing the tension, cleared her throat.
“Well then—shall we come in? Emily’s waiting, isn’t she?”
Emily appeared from the kitchen, beaming. She hugged her parents tightly, then took Thomas’s hand and led them inside.
Dinner crawled by in stiff silence. Margaret studied Thomas like a puzzle. Henry fired off clipped questions—What do you do? How long have you been together? Where are your parents from?
When Thomas mentioned he was a vet, Margaret raised an eyebrow.
“A vet? Blimey. Never would’ve guessed…”
He only nodded.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. But tattoos aren’t contagious.”
A pause. Then Henry grunted:
“Why animals?”
Thomas took a deep breath.
“Found a dying dog when I was a kid. Mum and I rushed him to the clinic. Saw the vet fight for a creature who couldn’t speak… Knew then that’s what I wanted to do.”
Henry’s expression softened. Soon he was asking about cases, even sharing how he’d once fished a cat out of a drain.
By the end of the night, the mood had lifted. Thomas told stories of animals sensing kindness, of nights spent nursing scraggly strays others had given up on.
As her parents left, Margaret suddenly hugged him.
“Thank you for being honest,” she whispered. “I was… wrong.”
Henry shook his hand firmly.
“Look after my girl. She’s one of a kind.”
The door clicked shut. Thomas exhaled.
“Thought your mum was about to splash holy water on me.”
Emily laughed, leaning into him.
“Knew they’d love you. Because you’re the best.”
They stood in silence, arms wrapped around each other, while on the windowsill, a ginger kitten—the very one Thomas had saved—slept soundly.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Thomas murmured. “If not for you, if not for this little sod… we might’ve never even met.”
“Now we’ve got a story for our kids,” Emily grinned.
“And parents who didn’t chuck me out,” he added.
They laughed—soft, easy, knowing that true happiness wasn’t perfection, but being loved exactly as you were.
