Sometimes life deals you a melodrama no screenwriter could dream up. My husband, James, stormed in with a face like thunder, tossed his keys on the shelf, and silently kicked off his shoes. Not like him at all—usually, he came back from seeing his daughter, Emily, glowing like a child on Christmas morning. Before I could even ask how their time went, he erupted like a kettle left boiling too long:
“Emma, you won’t believe it! I went to pick up Emily from preschool early—wanted to surprise her. Walked in, and there she was, holding hands with some bloke! My blood ran cold. Thought he was some kind of kidnapper! Charged over, ready to throw down, and then… it turns out he’s Olivia’s new boyfriend!”
My name’s Emma, and I’d always known Olivia—James’s ex-wife—was his festering wound. We’ve been married nearly six years, have a son, Oliver. But Olivia’s ghost has haunted us like stale perfume. James could never quite let go: rushing over when she had a sniffle, sending her flowers “from Emily” (but signing the card himself). We’ve rowed more times than I can count over his inability to cut the cord.
And now? She’s getting married. Finally. You’d think he’d shrug it off. Instead? He’s furious.
“He had the nerve to tell me it’s serious! Wedding’s coming up, apparently. This bloke, Daniel—divorced, has a son—reckons Olivia will be a ‘wonderful wife and stepmum.’ Can you believe it?”
“Well… maybe she will be. Aren’t you happy for her?” I asked, biting back a grin.
“Happy? Are you mad? What if he’s like all the others? Marries her, then swans off with some bimbo? And Emily’s stuck watching it? She’s just a kid!” James ranted.
A thought flickered: Maybe Daniel’s more reliable than James. Steady, mature, actually present. A quick scroll through Olivia’s socials showed cosy snaps with Daniel—smiles, family barbecues, kids building sandcastles. Daniel’s profile? Open, wholesome. No thirst traps, no cryptic posts. Just a decent man.
I mumbled about a headache and slipped off to bed early. Put Oliver to sleep, left the door ajar. Knew what was coming. Sure enough—phone call to Olivia.
“Liv, what’s all this? You’re really serious with him?” His voice carried from the kitchen.
Silence. Then, strained and quiet:
“I just… don’t want you to have a husband. Think about me.”
I froze. This wasn’t about Emily. He was jealous. Not of me—of Olivia. The one he’d left for a “fresh start” but never truly released.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I felt the cracks spread. I’m his wife. Mother of his child. The one he shares a mortgage and laundry duties with. Yet here he was, begging another woman not to move on because… it hurt him.
People say jealousy means love. But love for whom?
Now I’m stuck. Do I play dumb? Or confront him: Who’s in your heart—me, or the ghost of Olivia? What am I to you if you’re still shackled to her?
He climbed into bed, hugged me like nothing happened. I lay there, hollow. Because the truth’s simple: I’m not the only one here. Even if I’m the only one he shares a bed with.
So tell me—is this love? Or just a man’s panic at losing control over a woman he wronged? Why do men lose it when an ex dares to be happy without them? And how’s the current woman meant to live with that?…
