He’s furious that his ex is getting married. And I’m his current wife. How am I supposed to react to this?
Sometimes life throws you a drama no scriptwriter could’ve dreamed up. My husband, James, came home with his face twisted in anger, tossed his keys onto the shelf, and silently kicked off his shoes. That wasn’t like him at all—he’d just been to see his daughter, and he usually came back glowing with happiness. Before I could even ask how the visit went, he exploded—as if he’d been holding it in the whole time.
“Emma, you won’t believe this! I went to pick up Sophie from nursery early, wanted to surprise her. Walked in, and some bloke was holding her hand! My blood ran cold—thought it was a kidnapper. Rushed over to sort it out, and turns out… it’s Olivia’s new man!”
My name’s Emma, and I’ve known for years that his ex-wife, Olivia, was his unhealed wound. We’ve been together nearly six years, and we have a son, Oliver. But Olivia’s always been there—a shadow between us. James could never quite let go—he’d stay over when she had a fever, buy her flowers for her birthday “from Sophie,” but sign them himself. And the number of times we’ve argued because he was too tangled up in her life…
And now? She’s getting married. Finally. He should be past caring. Instead, he’s raging, fuming, tearing his hair out.
“You know what he told me? That it’s serious! Wedding’s coming up, apparently. This Daniel—divorced too, has a son—reckons Olivia’s going to be a brilliant wife and stepmum for his boy.”
“Well, maybe she will be. Aren’t you happy for her?” I asked softly, though I could barely hide my satisfied smile.
“Happy? Are you joking? What if he’s just like the rest? Marries her, then finds someone else? And Sophie has to see that? She’s just a kid!” James was pacing, frantic.
A thought crept into my mind—maybe Daniel’s more reliable than James. Calm, mature, caring. I checked Olivia’s social media—photos with Daniel. Smiling, family outings, barbecues in the garden. His profile was open, transparent—pictures with his son, at work, on trips. No girls in revealing clothes, no shady statuses. Just a decent, ordinary bloke.
I told James I wasn’t feeling well and went to bed early. Really, I put Oliver to sleep and sat in our room, the door left slightly ajar. Because I knew—he’d call Olivia. And he did.
“Liv, what’s all this? You’re actually serious with him?” His voice carried from the kitchen.
Silence. Then James again:
“I don’t want you to have a husband… Think about me!”
I froze. This wasn’t just about his daughter. He was jealous. Not of me—of her. His ex. The one he left for a “new life” but could never truly let go.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling everything inside me collapse. I’m his wife. The mother of his son. The one he shares his days with, makes plans with. And yet here he was, begging another woman not to marry—because *he* was hurt.
People say jealousy means love. But love for *who*?
Now I don’t know what to do. Stay quiet, pretend I heard nothing? Or ask him straight—who’s really in your heart, me or Olivia? What am I to you if you can’t let go of the woman *you* walked away from?
James climbed into bed, wrapped his arms around me like nothing had happened. I lay there, foreign in my own skin. Because I realised—I’m not the only one here. Even if it’s just me in this bed. Deep down, someone else still lives inside him. And it isn’t me.
Is this love? Or just fear of losing control over the woman he wronged? Why do men lose their minds when an ex moves on? Why does it torture them to think someone else might give her what they couldn’t?
And most of all—how do *I* live with it? The one who’s actually here?…
