So, you know how life sometimes throws a curveball that no soap opera could ever top? My husband, James, came home looking like he’d seen a ghost, slammed his keys on the shelf, and just marched off to take his shoes off without a word. Totally not like him—he’d just been to pick up his daughter, Lily, from nursery, which usually leaves him grinning like an idiot. Before I could even ask how it went, he just exploded:
“Lucy, you won’t believe this! I went to get Lily early, wanted to surprise her. Walk in, and some bloke’s holding her hand! My blood ran cold—thought he was some random creep. Rushed over, ready to lose it, and turns out… it’s Emma’s new boyfriend!”
I’m Lucy, by the way, and I’ve known for years that his ex, Emma, was like this old wound that never quite healed. We’ve been together nearly six years, have a son, Noah. But Emma’s always been this shadow between us. James could never fully let go—running to her place when she had the flu, buying her birthday flowers “from Lily” but signing them himself. And don’t get me started on the rows we’ve had over him being too tangled up in her life.
And now? She’s getting married. Finally. You’d think he’d be relieved. But no—he’s fuming, pacing around like a madman.
“Can you believe it? He had the nerve to tell me it’s serious! Wedding’s coming up. This Daniel guy’s divorced too, has a son, and apparently thinks Emma’s perfect stepmum material.”
“So… is that bad? Maybe she will be. Aren’t you happy for her?” I asked, biting back a smug smile.
“Happy? Are you joking? What if he’s like all the rest? Marries her, then cheats? Lily doesn’t need to see that—she’s just a kid!” he ranted.
Part of me wondered: what if Daniel’s actually the decent one? Stable, grown-up, caring. I sneaked a peek at Emma’s socials—photos of them all smiles, family barbecues, kids. Checked his profile—open book. Pics with his son, from work, trips. No random girls in skimpy outfits, no dodgy captions. Just… a normal, proper bloke.
I told James I wasn’t feeling well and headed to bed early. Really, I just put Noah down and sat in our room, door cracked. Because I *knew*—he’d call Emma. And he did.
“Emmie, what’s all this? You’re really doing this?” His voice carried from the kitchen.
Silence. Then him again:
“I don’t want you to have a husband… Think about *me* for once!”
My stomach dropped. This wasn’t just about Lily. He was jealous. Not of me—of *her*. His ex. The one he left for a “fresh start” but never really set free.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling everything crumble. *I’m* his wife. Mother of his child. The one he shares a life with. And here he is, begging another woman not to marry someone else because *he’s* hurt.
People say jealousy means love—but love for *who*?
Now I don’t know what to do. Pretend I heard nothing? Or look him dead in the eye and ask: “Who’s in your heart—me or her? What am I even *to* you, if you can’t let go of someone who’s moved on?”
He climbed into bed later, hugged me like nothing happened. I just lay there, frozen. Because I finally got it—I’m not the only one he’s holding. Even if I’m the only one here. Deep down, there’s still someone else. And it’s not me.
So tell me—is that love? Or just him panicking that the woman he walked away from might actually be happy without him? Why do men lose it when an ex finds what they couldn’t give her?
And more importantly… how am I supposed to live with that?
