He’s furious that his ex is getting married. And I’m his current wife. How should I react to this?
Sometimes life throws drama at you that no scriptwriter could invent. My husband, James, came home with a face like thunder, flung his keys onto the shelf, and went straight to take off his shoes in silence. It wasn’t like him at all—he’d just come back from seeing his daughter, which usually left him glowing. I hadn’t even asked how the visit went when he erupted, as if he couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“Emily, you won’t believe it! I went to pick up Sophie from nursery early, thought I’d surprise her. Walked in, and some bloke was holding her hand! My blood ran cold—thought it was a kidnapper! I rushed over, ready to confront him, and then… it was Olivia’s new boyfriend!”
I’m Emily, and I’ve known for years that James’s ex-wife, Olivia, has always been his unhealed wound. We’ve been together nearly six years, and we have a son, Thomas. But Olivia has lingered between us like a shadow. James could never fully let go—sleeping over when she was ill, sending her flowers “from Sophie” but signing them himself. And how many times have we argued because he’s been too tangled up in her life?
And now—she’s getting married. Finally. He should be indifferent. But instead, he’s raging, pacing, tearing his hair out.
“Can you believe it? He had the nerve to tell me it’s serious! A wedding, he says, is coming up. This Daniel—another divorcee with a son—has decided Olivia would make a good wife and mother for his boy.”
“Well, maybe she will. Aren’t you happy for her?” I asked quietly, though I could barely suppress a smirk.
“Happy? Are you serious? What if he turns out like the rest? Marries her, then finds someone else? Sophie shouldn’t have to see that—she’s just a child!” James ranted.
A thought crept in: maybe Daniel is more reliable than James? Stable, mature, caring. I checked Olivia’s social media—photos with Daniel. Smiles, family, kids, barbecues in the countryside. His profile was open, transparent: pictures with his son, at work, on trips. No women in skimpy outfits, no ambiguous statuses. Just a decent, normal man.
I told James I felt unwell and went to bed early. In truth, after putting Thomas to sleep, I sat in the bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. I knew he’d call Olivia. And he did.
“Liv, what’s all this? Are you serious about him?” I heard from the kitchen.
Silence. Then James again.
“I don’t want you to have a husband… Think about me!”
I froze. It wasn’t just worry for Sophie. He was jealous. Not of me—of her. Of his ex. The one he left for a “new life” but could never truly release.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I felt everything inside me crumble. I’m his wife. The mother of his son. The one he shares his days and plans with. Yet there he was, begging another woman not to marry—because it hurt him.
People say jealousy means love—but love for who?
Now I don’t know what to do. Stay silent, pretend I heard nothing? Or ask outright: who do you really love—me or Olivia? What am I to you if you can’t let go of someone who’s already gone?
James climbed into bed and hugged me as if nothing had happened. But I lay there like a stranger. Because I realised—I’m not the only one in his heart. Physically, maybe. But somewhere deep down, someone else still lives there. And it’s not me.
Is this love? Or just fear of losing control over the woman he betrayed? Why do men agonise when their exes find happiness? Why does it eat at them, knowing someone else could be what they failed to be?
And most of all—how does the woman beside him live with it?
