He’s fuming that his ex is getting married. And I—I’m his current wife. How am I supposed to react to this?
Sometimes life throws you a drama no screenwriter could ever dream up. My husband, James, came home with his face twisted in anger, tossed his keys onto the shelf, and silently went to take off his shoes. It wasn’t like him—not at all. He’d just been to pick up his daughter, Lily, which usually left him glowing with joy. I barely had time to ask how the visit went before he erupted, his voice sharp with fury.
“Emma, you won’t believe this! I went to get Lily from nursery early—wanted to surprise her. And there she was, holding some bloke’s hand! My blood ran cold. Thought he was trying to take her! I rushed over, ready to tear him apart, and then I realized… it was Sarah’s new boyfriend.”
My name’s Emma, and I’ve known for years that his ex-wife, Sarah, was an old wound that never healed. We’ve been married nearly six years, we have a son, Oliver. But Sarah’s ghost has always lingered between us. James could never let go—running to her flat when she was ill, sending flowers on her birthday “from Lily,” but signing his own name. And the number of rows we’ve had over him meddling in her life…
And now—she’s getting married. Finally. He should be relieved. Instead, he’s furious, pacing like a caged animal.
“He had the nerve to tell me it’s serious! Wedding’s coming up, apparently. This Daniel—another divorcee, has a son—reckons Sarah will make the perfect wife and stepmum. Can you believe it?”
“Well… maybe she will. Aren’t you happy for her?” I asked softly, though I could hardly hide the smirk creeping onto my lips.
“Happy? Are you joking? What if he’s just like the rest? Marries her, then finds some other woman? Lily doesn’t need to see that—she’s just a child!” James raged.
A thought flickered in my mind: Maybe Daniel is everything James isn’t. Steady. Mature. Dependable. I pulled up Sarah’s social media—photos of her and Daniel, all smiles, barbecues in the garden, kids laughing. His profile was nothing but openness—snaps with his son, trips abroad, work events. No half-dressed women, no shady captions. Just a decent man.
I told James I wasn’t feeling well, that I’d turn in early. Truth was, I put Oliver to bed, then sat in the bedroom, door left ajar. Because I knew—he’d call her. And he did.
“Sarah, what’s all this? Are you really doing this?” His voice carried from the kitchen.
A pause. Then James again, quieter, strained:
“I don’t want you to have a husband… Just—think about me.”
My breath caught. This wasn’t about Lily. He wasn’t just worried. He was jealous. Not of me—of *her*. His ex. The one he left for a “fresh start” but 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 life with, his plans, his ordinary days. And yet—he’s begging another woman not to marry, because *he* can’t bear it.
They say if he’s jealous, he must love her. But who?
Now I don’t know what to do. Stay silent, pretend I heard nothing? Or look him in the eye and ask—who is it you love? Me, or Sarah? And what does that make me, if you still can’t let go of the one who walked away?
James climbed into bed beside me, pulled me close as if nothing had happened. But I lay there, stiff and hollow. Because I finally understood—I’m not the only one in his heart. Not really. Even if I’m here, flesh and blood, someone else still lives inside him.
And it’s not me.
Tell me—is this love? Or just the panic of losing control over a woman he once betrayed? Why do men ache so badly when an ex finds happiness? Why does it kill them to think someone else might be what they never were?
And most of all—how am I supposed to live with it?
