He’s furious that his ex is getting married. And I—his current wife—don’t know how to react.
Sometimes life serves up drama no playwright could invent. My husband, James, came home with his face twisted in anger, tossed his keys onto the shelf, and silently kicked off his shoes. It wasn’t like him at all—he’d just been to see his daughter, Lily, and usually returned beaming. Before I could even ask how the visit had gone, he exploded:
“Emma, you won’t believe it! I went to pick Lily up from nursery early—wanted to surprise her. When I walked in, some bloke was holding her hand! My blood ran cold—thought he was a kidnapper. I rushed over, ready to confront him, and then… I realised. It was Olivia’s new man!”
My name was Emma, and I’d known for years that James’s first wife, Olivia, was an open wound. We’d been married nearly six years, had a son, Thomas. But Olivia had always lurked between us, a shadow James couldn’t shake. He’d been torn until the end—staying over when she was ill, sending flowers on her birthday “from Lily” but signing them himself. And how many times had we argued over how entangled he still was in her life?
And now—she was remarrying. At last. He should’ve been indifferent. Instead, he was seething, pacing like a caged animal.
“He actually had the nerve to tell me it’s serious! A wedding, he says, is coming. This Henry—another divorcee, with a son of his own—reckons Olivia will make a fine wife and stepmother. Can you believe it?”
“Well, maybe she will. Aren’t you happy for her?” I asked softly, though I barely held back a satisfied smile.
“Happy? Are you joking? What if he’s like all the rest? Marries her, then strays? Lily shouldn’t have to see that—she’s just a child!” James ranted.
A thought crept in: what if Henry was steadier than James? Mature, dependable. I glanced at Olivia’s socials—photos of her and Henry. Smiles, family outings, picnics in the countryside. His profile was open, honest—images with his son, his job, his travels. No scantily clad women, no suggestive posts. Just a decent, ordinary man.
I told James I felt unwell and went to bed early. In truth, I tucked Thomas in, then sat in our room, door ajar. I knew he’d call Olivia. And he did.
“Liv, what’s all this about? Is it really serious?” His voice floated in from the kitchen.
Silence. Then again:
“I don’t want you to have a husband… Think of me!”
I froze. This wasn’t about Lily. He was jealous. Not of me—but of her. Of the woman he’d left for a “new life” but never truly released.
Lying there, staring at the ceiling, I felt everything inside me crumble. I was his wife. The mother of his son. The one he built plans with, shared ordinary days. Yet here he was, begging another woman not to marry—because it hurt him.
People say jealousy means love. But who was he loving?
Now I don’t know what to do. Do I pretend I heard nothing? Or do I ask outright: Who holds your heart—me or Olivia? What am I to you if you can’t let go of the one who’s gone?
James slipped into bed, pulled me close as if nothing had happened. But I lay there like a stranger. Because I understood—I wasn’t the only one in his heart. Even if I was the only one beside him. Deep down, someone else still lived there. And it wasn’t me.
Is this love? Or is it the fear of losing control over the woman he betrayed? Why do men ache so when an ex finds happiness? Why does it twist them inside, knowing someone else might be what they failed to be?
And most of all—how does the woman by his side live with it?…
