Love in the Kitchen
William and Emily have just returned from the supermarket. Their arms full of shopping bags, they step into the kitchen and begin unpacking. William, distracted by his thoughts, suddenly turns to Emily with a small smile.
“Love, go rest. I’ll make something special tonight… my signature dish. A roast!”
“You know how to make a roast?” Emily freezes, her mouth slightly open in surprise.
“Well, yes? What’s so strange about that?” he replies, genuinely puzzled.
“It’s just… it’s…” Emily suddenly covers her face with her hands and begins to cry—silently but deeply, as if a dam of emotions has broken.
William hesitates, then moves closer and sits beside her.
“Em, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
She doesn’t answer immediately, but after wiping her tears, she forces out the words.
“No one… in all these years… has ever cooked a roast for me. Not once. My mum did, ages ago… But after that, it was always me—always cooking for someone else. And he… Michael… all he did was eat, drink, have fun… while I carried everything alone.”
William looks down. He knows Emily has recently divorced. He knows how hard it’s been for her.
The split with Michael was inevitable. He disappeared on a bender just before their family holiday, never showing up at the train station where his wife and son waited. That was the moment Emily realised: enough. No more.
At first, there was relief. Nights without slamming doors or drunken kitchen rants. No more fridge raids at 3 a.m. No more reeking, hungover mates. Just silence and freedom. But after six months, that silence became deafening. Suffocating.
Yes, Emily had her son, Oliver, a steady job, and loyal friends. But she missed one thing—someone to lean on. Someone to share the weight. Someone warm.
Desperate, she turned to her brother, James.
“Got anyone decent in mind? Someone who doesn’t drink himself stupid or trample all over my feelings?”
James brightened.
“There’s William. Solid as they come. Not a looker, but a good man. Trust me, I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
At their first meeting, William struck Emily as too plain. Lanky, tall, with a face far from magazine standards. Not much to look at, but… his eyes were kind. Real.
“Give it time,” she told herself and decided to try. Things couldn’t get worse.
Their early dates were quiet, even awkward. Then, suddenly, William vanished for a week. Emily assumed she’d bored him. She felt hurt, even slighted. But then he reappeared—with a cake and flowers.
“Got called away for work. Sorry I couldn’t warn you.”
After that, they met more often. Walks, talks. She kept Oliver out of sight, afraid to scare off the fragile warmth growing between them.
One day, they bumped into each other outside Tesco. Groceries in hand, William waved.
“I’ve got the car. Let’s toss these in the boot.”
“You drive? I had no idea…”
As they loaded the bags, Michael appeared. Drunk, as usual. His face twisted into a sneer.
“What a surprise! Found yourself a bloke, eh? I still want to see my son!”
“Ex?” William muttered.
“Yes…” Emily sighed.
“Not today, Michael,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, run along. And you—watch your back!” Michael slurred before stumbling off.
William held his tongue. For Emily’s sake.
Back home, Emily silently unpacked the shopping before sinking onto a stool and hugging herself.
“Shaken?” William asked softly.
“A bit…”
“Still love him?”
“No. Buried that long ago. Only the hurt remains.”
“Then there’s still room for better things. Rest. I’ll make the roast.”
“You really know how?” she asked again.
“Course I do.”
And the tears came once more. From exhaustion. From the shock of having someone who didn’t demand, use, or break—but simply wanted to cook for her.
William busied himself in the kitchen while Emily dozed off in the other room. He tucked the blanket around her, drew the curtains. Then, hesitating just a second, he stroked her hair—like something sacred.
A noise at the door.
“Oliver?” he wondered.
But it was Michael.
A minute later, he was back in the hall, slamming the door behind him.
“Try that again!” William snapped before returning to the kitchen to check the potatoes.
Half an hour later, Emily emerged, stretching with a sleepy smile.
“Did someone come by?”
“Just a dream, probably,” he said gently.
Inwardly, he vowed: “I’ll protect her. Always.”
That evening, Emily said:
“I’d like you to meet Oliver. And… tomorrow, I’ll change the locks.”
A month later, they married. James was overjoyed, often telling Oliver:
“Here’s your dad. A proper one. Look after him.”
And the boy nodded.
That night, William cooked roast again. Still amazed that happiness could be this simple. Built on love, kindness… and a humble home-cooked meal.
