Love Traded for Shepherd’s Pie
“Oliver, I’ve ordered takeaway again,” called Emily from the kitchen, peering into the empty fridge.
“Again?” Oliver’s voice was heavy, like a November drizzle. “Why don’t we just make beans on toast?”
Emily froze, her fingers tightening around the fridge door.
“We’ve had beans on toast all week.”
Oliver said nothing, only sighed tiredly. On the table sat a lone bottle of HP sauce beside a crumpled wrapper from last night’s kebab.
Emily had long stopped apologising for her indifference to cooking. Work consumed her: reports, calls, endless deadlines. Oliver grumbled but never pushed.
Until Charlotte came into their lives.
Charlie was Emily’s old school friend. Divorced, alone, with hands that worked magic. She cooked as if her dishes could earn Michelin stars. Perfectly flaky pies, sauces that made your heart sing, tender meats that melted on the tongue, vegetables infused with herbs Emily had never heard of.
At first, they visited Charlie together. Emily sipped wine, Charlie worked her miracles at the stove, and Oliver ate with such bliss he seemed to forget who was beside him.
Then the oddities began.
“You’ve got a stain on your shirt,” Emily noticed, squinting.
“Oh, that’s from Charlie’s,” Oliver tossed back carelessly. “She made this shepherd’s pie—unreal!”
“Without me?”
“She invited me over. Said she’d made a bloke’s version—extra beef, none of that fancy herb nonsense.”
With every visit to Charlie’s, Oliver returned happier.
“She doesn’t just cook well,” he’d say, smiling faintly. “She listens. Her place is cosy. It feels like home.”
The word “cosy” cut Emily deeper than “delicious” ever could.
One night, he came home past midnight, smelling of red wine and rosemary. He didn’t apologise—just walked straight to bed.
Three days later, he stood in the hallway with a duffel bag.
“Em… I’m leaving.”
“Where?” Her voice wobbled.
“Charlie’s.”
Emily froze, her heart squeezing tight as if bound by rope.
“Her place… it’s warm,” Oliver continued, staring at the floor. “Proper home cooking, not Deliveroo. She doesn’t nag or boss me about. She’s a woman, not a department head. With you, it’s like being interrogated. And I’m tired of your Tesco meal deals.”
Emily straightened, eyes flashing.
“Go. But don’t come crawling back.”
“Didn’t think you’d let me go so easily,” he muttered, slamming the door.
—
Day one: Emily ordered five curries. Ate a spoonful of each, binned the rest. Day two: she lay in a ratty dressing gown, staring at the ceiling. Day three: she went shopping and bought unfamiliar ingredients—”thyme,” “Stilton,” “truffle oil.”
She pulled up a video: “Roast Dinner for Beginners.” Smirked, but a tear rolled down, leaving a salty trail. Emily learned. Messed up. Burnt fingers. Oversalted. Tried again.
A month later, she posted her first video. On screen: a woman with tired eyes holding a charred cottage pie. Title: “He Left Because I Couldn’t Cook.”
Followers flooded in. Comments poured:
“You’re real—not some pretentious chef.”
“Keep going, you’ll get there!”
Emily came alive. Slowly, surely. Six months in: 400K followers. Nine months: 700K. A year: her own cookery school and a sauce line with her name on the label.
One evening, leaving the studio, she spotted a familiar figure. Oliver. In a pricey but crumpled blazer, eyes weary.
“Hey,” he said, forcing a smile. “You’ve changed.”
“Yep. And not just the hair,” Emily replied, arms crossed.
“You’re everywhere now. Even my mum makes your Yorkshire puddings.”
“The same mum who said I couldn’t boil an egg?”
“She raves about you now: ‘Emily’s a wonder, taught herself.’”
Emily scoffed.
“Funny what a decent gravy can do to a mother-in-law’s opinion.”
Oliver shifted, then squared his shoulders.
“I was thinking… maybe we try again?”
Emily laughed—loud, real, until tears prickled.
“You’re serious?”
“Not just for the food,” he said, looking down. “We could be good together. You’ve grown. I always knew you had it in you.”
Emily stepped closer, eyes blazing.
“You’re giving *me* a chance?” Her voice was icy. “You’re right—I’ve changed. But I don’t need your approval anymore.”
He flinched as if struck.
“Em, I—”
“You left for ‘cosier.’ I became better. I don’t want someone who walked out over a plate of pie.”
Oliver opened his mouth, found no words. Turned and left, shoulders slumped under the weight.
—
An hour later, Emily turned on the camera.
“Hey, loves! Today we’re making ‘Freedom Fish & Chips.’ No sides from the past. Cook with love—for yourself, for those who cherish you.”
The stream broke records. Emily cooked, spoke about pain, comebacks, learning self-worth. She inspired, uplifted, opened eyes.
Switching off the lights, she gazed at her reflection in the dark window. A woman stood tall, in a vibrant apron, eyes alive. The scent of fresh cooking filled the house. But now, she cooked for no one’s sake but her own.
Her happiness no longer depended on a man.
—
This story unfolded in a sleepy Cornish town, where Emily found herself—and joy in loving her craft and her own worth.
