Roast with Love
William and Emily had just returned from the supermarket. Burdened with bags, they carried them into the kitchen and began unpacking. William, preoccupied with his task, suddenly turned to Emily with a faint smile and said:
“Love, go rest. I’ll cook something special… my signature dish. A roast!”
“You know how to make a roast?” Emily froze, her mouth slightly open in surprise.
“Well, yes—what’s so strange about that?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.
“No, it’s just…” Emily covered her face with her hands and burst into quiet, heavy tears, as if an entire waterfall of emotion had broken loose.
William, confused, stepped closer and sat beside her.
“Em… what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
She took a moment before answering, wiping her cheeks.
“No one… in all these years… has ever made a roast for me. Not once. My mum did, ages ago… After that, it was always me, always cooking for someone else. And him—Michael—just ate, drank, had his fun… while I carried everything.”
William lowered his gaze. He knew Emily had recently divorced. And he knew how hard it had been for her.
The split with Michael had been inevitable. He’d gone on a bender right before their family holiday, never showing up at the train station where Emily and their son, Oliver, waited. That’s when she knew—enough. No more suffering.
At first, there was relief. Nights without slamming doors or drunken kitchen rants. No fridge raids at three in the morning. No stinking, hungover mates. Just silence and freedom. But after six months, that silence began to ring. It choked her.
Yes, Emily had Oliver. She had her job, her loyal friends. But she didn’t have the one thing she needed—a steady shoulder. Someone who cared. Warmth.
Desperate, she turned to her brother, James:
“Don’t suppose you know anyone decent? No party boys, no one barging in with muddy boots.”
James brightened.
“Actually, yes. William. Simple but solid. Not exactly a looker, but a good man. Trust me, I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
At first, William struck Emily as too plain. Tall, lanky, nothing like the glossy magazine standards. Unremarkable—except for his eyes. Kind. Real.
“Better the devil you know,” she thought, and decided to give it a shot. Things couldn’t get worse.
Early dates were reserved, even a bit awkward. Then William vanished for a week. Emily assumed she’d put him off—she sulked, even felt slighted. Until he reappeared, cake and flowers in hand.
“Got pulled into a work trip last minute. Sorry I didn’t warn you.”
After that, they met more often. Long walks, long talks. She kept Oliver tucked away, afraid to scare off the fragile warmth growing between them.
One day, they ran into each other at the shops. The bags were absurdly heavy. William waved it off.
“I’ve got the car. Let’s toss them in the boot.”
“You have a car? I didn’t know…”
While loading the bags, Michael appeared. Drunk, as always, face twisted. He eyed William and sneered:
“Well, well—found yourself a new bloke, eh? And here I was, thinking I’d actually see my son!”
“Ex?” William murmured.
“Yes…” Emily sighed.
“Not now, Michael,” she said softly.
“Oh, scared now, are we? And you—watch yourself, mate!” Michael staggered off.
William held his tongue. For Emily’s sake.
At home, Emily silently unpacked groceries before sinking onto a stool, arms wrapped around herself.
“That shook you?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“Still love him?”
“No. Buried that long ago. Just the hurt’s left.”
“Then there’s plenty ahead,” he said. “Rest. I’ll make the roast.”
“You really know how?” she asked again.
“Course.”
More tears. From exhaustion. From the shock of someone who didn’t take, didn’t wreck—just wanted to cook for her.
William busied himself in the kitchen while Emily dozed in the other room. He adjusted her blanket, drew the curtains, and for a moment, brushed his fingers through her hair—as if touching something sacred.
A noise at the lock.
“Oliver…?”
But it was Michael.
A minute later, William had him back in the hallway, the door slamming shut.
“Try coming back. Just try,” William muttered before returning to check the potatoes.
Half an hour later, Emily wandered in, stretching. She smiled.
“Did someone come by?”
“Must’ve dreamed it,” he said gently.
But to himself: *Now I’ll protect her. Always.*
That evening, Emily said:
“I want you to meet Oliver. And… tomorrow, I’ll change the locks.”
A month later, they married. James was thrilled, often whispering to Ollie:
“That’s your dad now. A proper one. Look after him.”
The boy nodded.
And that night, William made roast again. Still in disbelief that real happiness could start so simply—with love, with kindness… and an ordinary roast.
