**A Roast Made with Love**
Thomas and Eleanor had just returned from the supermarket. Arms full of shopping bags, they carried them into the kitchen and began unpacking. Thomas, busy with the groceries, suddenly turned to Eleanor with a soft smile.
—”Love, go rest. I’ll make something special tonight… a proper roast.”
—”You know how to make a roast?” Eleanor froze, her lips parting in surprise.
—”Course I do. What’s so strange about that?” he replied, genuinely puzzled.
—”No, it’s just…” Her voice trailed off as she covered her face and burst into tears. Silent, yet heavy, as if a flood of emotions had finally broken through.
Thomas, bewildered, stepped closer and sat beside her.
—”Ellie, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
It took her a moment to answer. Wiping her tears, she whispered:
—”No one… in all these years… has ever cooked a roast for me. Not once. Mum did, long ago… But after that—only me, always for someone else. And him… Mark… he just ate, drank, had his fun… while I carried everything.”
Thomas looked down. He knew Eleanor had divorced recently. He knew how much it weighed on her.
Leaving Mark had been inevitable. He’d gone off drinking the night before their family holiday, never showing up at the train station where Eleanor and their son, Oliver, waited. That was the moment she knew—enough. No more suffering.
At first, there was relief. Nights without slamming doors or drunken kitchen chatter. No fridge raids at 3 a.m., no stinking breath of his mates. Silence. Freedom. But after six months, that silence grew deafening. It choked her.
Yes, she had Oliver. She had work, loyal friends. But she missed a shoulder to lean on. Someone who cared. Warmth.
Searching for a way forward, she turned to her brother, Daniel:
—”You know anyone decent? No drinking, no nonsense.”
Daniel grinned.
—”There’s Thomas. Not flashy, but solid. Trust me, he’s a good man.”
At first, Thomas seemed too plain to her. Lanky, tall, nothing like the glossy magazine types. Nothing striking—except his eyes. Kind. Real.
—”Give it time,” she told herself. Couldn’t hurt to try.
Early dates were cautious, awkward even. Then Thomas vanished for a week. Eleanor assumed she’d bored him, felt a sting of rejection. But he returned—with flowers, cake.
—”Got pulled into a work trip last minute. Sorry I didn’t ring.”
After that, they met more often. Walked. Talked. She kept Oliver out of it—afraid to scare away the fragile warmth blooming inside.
One day, running into each other at the shop, burdened with heavy bags, Thomas waved.
—”I’ve got the car. Toss ’em in the boot.”
—”You drive?” She blinked.
As they loaded the bags, Mark stumbled over. Drunk, as usual. His face twisted.
—”Well, well. Found yourself a new bloke, eh? I’ve got rights to see my son, you know!”
—”Your ex?” Thomas murmured.
—”Yeah…” Eleanor sighed.
—”Not today, Mark,” she said softly.
—”Oh, scared now? And you—watch your back, mate.” Mark swayed off.
Thomas held his tongue. For her.
At home, Eleanor silently sorted groceries before sinking onto a stool, arms wrapped around herself.
—”Upset?” Thomas asked quietly.
—”Yeah…”
—”Still love him?”
—”No. Buried that long ago. Just the hurt left.”
—”Then there’s still a future. Rest. I’ll make the roast.”
—”You really can?”
—”Course.”
Tears again. From exhaustion. From the shock of finding someone who didn’t take, didn’t break—just wanted to cook for her.
Thomas worked in the kitchen while Eleanor dozed off in the living room. He tucked a blanket around her, drew the curtains. Paused—then brushed his fingers through her hair, like touching something sacred.
Keys jingled in the lock.
—”Oliver?”
But it was Mark.
A minute later, Thomas shoved him back into the hallway, slamming the door.
—”Try that again,” he warned. Then returned to check the roast.
Half an hour later, Eleanor stretched awake, smiling.
—”Did someone come by?”
—”Just a dream, I reckon,” he said gently.
(But in his mind: “I’ll protect her now. Always.”)
That evening, she told him:
—”I want you to meet Oliver. And… I’ll change the locks tomorrow.”
A month later, they married. Daniel was thrilled, telling little Oliver:
—”There’s your dad. A proper one. Look after him.”
The boy nodded.
And that night, Thomas cooked another roast. Still amazed—real happiness could start so simply. With love. With kindness.
And an ordinary roast.
