Love in a Stew
Edward and Emily had just returned from the supermarket. Laden with shopping bags, they carried them into the kitchen and began unpacking. Edward, preoccupied with work, suddenly turned to Emily with a light smile and said,
“Love, go and rest. I’ll cook something special… my signature dish. A stew!”
“You know how to make a stew?” Emily froze, her mouth slightly open in surprise.
“Yeah, is that so strange?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.
“No, it’s just…” Emily covered her face and began to cry silently, her shoulders shaking as if a flood of emotion had burst through.
Edward hesitated, then sat beside her.
“Em, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
It took her a moment to speak, but when she did, wiping her tears, she whispered,
“No one… in all these years… has made stew for me. Not once. My mum did, ages ago… but after that, it was always me cooking for someone else. And he… Michael… only ever ate, drank, went out… while I just kept everything going.”
Edward lowered his gaze. He knew Emily had recently divorced, and he understood how hard it had been.
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, had waited. That was the moment she’d thought: Enough. No more.
At first, there was relief. Nights without slamming doors or drunken kitchen chatter. No fridge raids at 3 a.m. No reek of stale beer from his mates. Just silence and freedom. But after six months, that silence became deafening, suffocating.
Yes, Emily had Oliver, her job, her close friends. But she missed the simple things—a shoulder to lean on, warmth, care.
Desperate, she turned to her brother Benjamin.
“Don’t suppose you know anyone decent? No wild nights, no trampling over hearts.”
Benjamin brightened.
“There’s Edward. He’s simple, but steady. Not a looker, but a good man. Trust me, I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
At their first meeting, Edward seemed too plain to Emily—lanky, tall, with features far from magazine perfection. Unremarkable, but… his eyes were kind. Genuine.
“Give it time,” she told herself and decided to try. Things couldn’t get worse.
Their early dates were restrained, even awkward. Then Edward vanished for a week. Emily assumed she’d disappointed him. But he reappeared with cake and flowers.
“Got called away for work. Sorry I didn’t warn you.”
After that, they met more often—walking, talking. She kept Oliver out of sight, afraid to scare away the fragile warmth growing between them.
One day, they ran into each other at the shops. The bags were heavy, and Edward waved it off.
“I’ve got the car. Let’s toss these in the boot.”
“You drive? I didn’t know…”
As they loaded the bags, Michael appeared. Drunk, as usual, his face twisted. He sneered the moment he spotted Edward.
“Well, well! Found yourself a bloke, eh? And here I am, wanting to see my son!”
“Ex?” Edward muttered.
“Yeah,” Emily sighed.
“Not today, Michael,” she said quietly.
Michael swayed, glaring. “Watch yourself, mate!” Then he staggered off.
Edward stayed calm—for Emily’s sake.
At home, she unpacked in silence before sinking onto a stool, arms wrapped around herself.
“Shaken?” he asked softly.
“A bit…”
“Still love him?”
“No. Buried that long ago. Just resentment left.”
“Then there’s still a future. Rest. I’ll make the stew.”
“You really know how?” she asked again.
“Course.”
And again, the tears came—from exhaustion, from relief that someone finally wanted to cook for her, not take from her.
Edward worked in the kitchen while Emily dozed off in the living room. He tucked a blanket around her, drew the curtains, and paused to brush a hand over her hair—like touching something sacred.
Then—keys in the lock.
“Oliver?” he wondered.
But it was Michael who stepped in.
A minute later, he was back in the hallway, the door slamming behind him.
“Try that again,” Edward warned, then returned to the stove to check the potatoes.
Half an hour later, Emily stretched awake, smiling.
“Did someone come by?”
“Just a dream, probably,” he murmured.
But he thought, *I’ll protect her. Always.*
That evening, Emily said,
“I want you to meet Oliver. And… tomorrow, I’m changing the locks.”
A month later, they married. Benjamin was thrilled, often telling Oliver,
“That’s your dad now. A real one. Look after him.”
And the boy nodded.
That night, Edward cooked stew again. It amazed him how something so simple—a stew, kindness, love—could be the start of real happiness. True happiness isn’t grand; it’s in the small things, the quiet moments, and the warmth we give each other.
