He was fuming that his ex was getting married. And I—his current wife—had no idea how to react.
Sometimes life throws at you a drama no playwright could invent. My husband, William, came home with his face twisted in anger, tossed his keys onto the sideboard, and silently began removing his shoes. It was unlike him—he had just returned from seeing his daughter, a visit that usually left him beaming. Before I could even ask how it had gone, he erupted, as if the words had been boiling inside him:
“Ellen, you won’t believe it! I went to pick up little Mary from nursery early, wanted to surprise her. And there she was, holding some bloke’s hand! My blood ran cold—I thought she’d been snatched! I rushed over, ready to demand answers, and then I realised… it was Olivia’s new man!”
My name was Ellen, and I had long known that William’s ex-wife, Olivia, was his unhealed wound. We’d been married almost six years, had a son together, Thomas. Yet Olivia had lingered between us like a shadow. William could never quite let go—rushing to her side when she fell ill, sending flowers “from Mary” but signing them himself. How many times had we quarrelled over how deeply he remained tangled in her life?
And now—she was remarrying. At last. Surely he should be indifferent. Instead, he was furious, pacing like a caged animal.
“Can you believe it? He had the nerve to tell me it’s serious—they’re getting married! This Oliver—divorced, got a son of his own—thinks Olivia will make a wonderful stepmother!”
“Well, perhaps she will. Aren’t you glad for her?” I asked softly, though I barely suppressed a smirk.
“Glad? Are you serious? What if he’s just like the rest of us? Marries her, then finds someone else? Mary doesn’t need that—she’s just a child!” William raged.
A thought crept in: what if Oliver was steadier than William? Calm, responsible, dependable. I glanced at Olivia’s socials—photos of picnics, family outings, the children laughing. Oliver’s profile was open, honest: pictures with his son, at work, on holiday. No flirtatious comments, no suggestive posts. Just a decent man living his life.
I told William I felt unwell and went to bed early. In truth, I tucked Thomas in, then sat in the dim light of our room, the door left slightly ajar. I knew he’d call Olivia. And he did.
“Liv, what’s all this? Are you really going through with it?” His voice carried from the kitchen.
Silence. Then William again:
“I don’t want you to have a husband… Think of me!”
I froze. This wasn’t about Mary. He was jealous. Not of me—but of her. His ex. The one he’d left for a “new life” but never truly released.
Lying there, staring at the ceiling, I felt something inside me crumble. I was his wife. The mother of his child. The one who shared his days, his plans, his ordinary moments. Yet here he was, begging another woman not to marry—because it pained him.
They say jealousy means love. But who, exactly, did he love?
Now I don’t know what to do. Do I pretend I heard nothing? Or do I look him in the eye and ask: Who lives in your heart—me or Olivia? And what am I to you, if you still cling to the one who’s gone?
Later, William climbed into bed and pulled me close as if nothing had happened. I lay stiff, a stranger in my own home. Because I understood—I wasn’t the only woman in his life. Not really. Even if I was the only one beside him.
Is this love? Or is it the fear of losing control over a woman he once betrayed? Why do men rage when their exes find happiness? Why does it gall them to think another man might succeed where they failed?
And most of all—how do I live with it?
