My name is Andrew, and I’m reaching out to anyone who might have been through something similar. I’m not looking for sympathy or judgment—I just need to speak up. I can’t stay silent any longer. I can’t handle this on my own anymore.
My wife’s name is Emma. We’ve been together for almost sixteen years, married for fifteen. We have two children, a son and a daughter. We’ve got our family home near London, we work, we raise our kids, and occasionally we take trips to the seaside—just like everyone else. On the surface, we look like a happy family. But I can’t sleep at night anymore. Because jealousy is consuming me.
I still love Emma as much as I did on our wedding day, even more now. I’ve seen her in everyday life, during tough times, when she’s tired, sick, frazzled, or upset—and she’s still the most beautiful woman to me. Sometimes when she leaves for work, I secretly admire how she gets ready—choosing earrings, smoothing down her skirt. It fills me with joy to be her husband. I still bring her coffee in the morning and leave notes on the bathroom mirror.
But this love is also the source of my torment. I’m terrified of losing her. I’m scared that one day she might not come home to me. I’m afraid someone else will make her laugh like she used to with me.
These fears didn’t come from nowhere. They’re fed by the stories I hear at work. Men in the break room chuckling about their trips with “the girls” and how their wives have no clue. How easy it is to keep secrets. One of them even said to my face: “Do you really think your wife is all that faithful? No one is these days…”
After such conversations, I started noticing every small detail. Emma used to linger in her pajamas for hours, and now she puts on a touch of makeup even for a quick trip to the store. She used to be home by six, but now she calls to say she’ll be late due to a “new project.” She used to share every part of her day, now she just sums it up with “All good.” She’s always liked things tidy, but now her wardrobe has a few dresses that are clearly not for work. New perfume. A new glow. Or am I just imagining it?
I’ve caught myself wanting to check her phone. To install a GPS in her car. To call her office and confirm she’s really there. Or to drop by her work unannounced and watch who she leaves with for lunch. Is it always the same man? Is he overly charming? But then I hesitate—what if she sees me? What if I’m wrong? How would I explain myself then?
These thoughts are eating me alive. Every evening, I wait, listening for her steps outside the door. Every delay feels like a blow to my heart. I can’t bring myself to ask her directly—I’m too afraid of hearing the truth. And if she says “no,” would I even believe her?
I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’ve always been confident. Never spied or caused scenes. But now I’m torn between love and paranoia. I don’t want to ruin our marriage with suspicion. But I can’t continue pretending nothing is changing.
I understand jealousy is a sickness. But what do you do when it becomes chronic? I truly don’t want to lose her. I want to be with her, wake up next to her, grow and age together. I want to trust. But I don’t know how.
If you’re reading this—you, who might have also felt the ground slipping away—tell me: what should I do? Should I talk to her honestly, risking the worst? Or stay silent and just be there, hoping this storm will pass?
I’m struggling. I’m drowning in my jealousy. And I don’t know how to find my way out.
