A Roast Made with Love
Jonathan and Charlotte had just returned from the supermarket. Burdened with shopping bags, they carried them into the kitchen and began unpacking. Jonathan, preoccupied, suddenly turned sharply to Charlotte with a faint smile.
“Love, go rest. I’ll make something special… my signature dish. A roast!”
“You can make a roast?” Charlotte froze, her lips parting in disbelief.
“Well, yeah. What’s so surprising?” He seemed genuinely baffled.
“It’s just… no one—” Her words caught in her throat as she pressed her hands to her face, silent tears spilling over. Heavy, as if a dam had burst inside her.
Jonathan hesitated before stepping closer, sitting beside her.
“Charlie… what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
She struggled before finally wiping her cheeks with trembling fingers.
“No one… in all these years… has cooked a roast for me. Not once. Mum did, long ago. After that—only me, always cooking for someone else. And him… Michael… all he did was eat, drink, go out… while I carried everything.”
Jonathan lowered his gaze. He knew Charlotte had recently divorced. Knew how hard it had been.
The split from Michael had been inevitable. He’d vanished on a bender the night before their family holiday, never showing at the station where Charlotte and their son, Oliver, had waited. That was the moment she knew—enough. No more.
At first, relief came. Nights without slamming doors or drunken rants in the kitchen. No drunken friends stinking of beer at odd hours. Just silence. Freedom. But six months later, that silence turned hollow. Suffocating.
Yes, Charlotte had Oliver, her job, loyal friends. But no one to lean on. No warmth.
Desperate, she turned to her brother Thomas.
“Know anyone decent? No drinkers, no… trampling over hearts.”
Thomas beamed.
“There’s one. Jonathan. Simple, but solid. Not a looker, but a good man. Trust me.”
At first, Jonathan seemed too plain to Charlotte. Lanky, tall, with features far from magazine perfection. Unremarkable—except for his eyes. Kind. Real.
“Give it time,” she thought, deciding to try. Things couldn’t get worse.
Early dates were stiff, hesitant. Then Jonathan disappeared for a week. Charlotte assumed rejection—until he returned with cake and flowers.
“Work sent me last-minute. Sorry I didn’t call.”
After that, they saw each other more. Walks, quiet conversations. She kept Oliver hidden, afraid to jinx the fragile warmth growing inside her.
One day, they bumped into each other outside a shop. Groceries heavy, Jonathan gestured to his car.
“Throw them in the boot.”
“You drive?”
As they loaded the bags, Michael appeared. Drunk, as ever. Face twisted with disdain.
“Look at this! Found yourself a bloke, eh? I still want to see my son!”
“Ex?” Jonathan murmured.
Charlotte sighed. “Yes.”
“Not today, Michael,” she said quietly.
Michael sneered. “Scared? Watch your back, mate!” He staggered off.
Jonathan bit his tongue—for her sake.
At home, Charlotte unpacked in silence before sinking onto a stool, arms wrapped around herself.
“Stirred up?” he asked gently.
“Yeah.”
“Still love him?”
“No. Buried that long ago. Only the hurt remains.”
“Then there’s room for better. Rest. I’ll make the roast.”
“You really know how?”
He nodded.
And again—tears. From exhaustion. From finally having someone who didn’t take, didn’t break, just wanted to cook for her.
Jonathan worked in the kitchen while Charlotte dozed off in the living room. He tucked the blanket around her, drew the curtains. Paused, then brushed her hair—like touching something sacred.
A rattle at the lock.
“Oliver?” he wondered.
But it was Michael.
A minute later, the flat door slammed shut behind him.
“Try coming back,” Jonathan muttered, returning to check the potatoes.
Half an hour later, Charlotte emerged, stretching.
“Was someone here?”
“Probably just a dream,” he said softly.
Inside, he vowed: *I’ll protect her. Always.*
That evening, Charlotte murmured,
“I want you to meet Oliver. And… tomorrow, I’ll change the locks.”
A month later, they married. Thomas was overjoyed, telling little Oliver,
“This is your dad now. A real one. Look after him.”
The boy nodded.
And Jonathan? He cooked another roast that night, marveling at how easily true happiness had begun—with love, kindness… and a simple roast.
