He Married Me Only to Run Back Into the Arms of His Ex-Wife

When I left my first marriage, I left with trauma stitched into my skin. My husband cheated repeatedly, denied it boldly, and made me feel like I was imagining things. Anytime I caught him talking to that woman, he’d say, “It’s all in your mind. Can’t I talk to anyone because I’m married? Stop seeing what isn’t there.”

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The day the other woman got pregnant and he could no longer hide it, he said, “I’m sorry. I went too far, but please forgive me.” It was too late to forgive what I’d always complained about. So I picked up myself, my five-year-old daughter, and the little dignity I had left, and walked out.

It took months to stop waking up with pain in my chest. Divorce wasn’t something I wanted—it was something I needed to survive. I went through with it, even when everyone told me to give him one more chance.

Two years later, when I met Akurugu, it felt like healing had finally taken human form. He was gentle, attentive, and wounded like me. He was a divorcee, too. He told me his ex-wife had destroyed his pride because she earned more than him—that she mocked him daily, treated him like the “wife” in the marriage, and eventually left him. His story softened me. I understood what pain looked like, what disrespect could do to a man’s soul. I saw him as a man trying to rebuild, just like I was.

We bonded. Two broken hearts finding warmth in each other’s shadows. It felt divine. Destined.

A year later, we married. I brought my daughter into our new home, and he embraced her easily. His children visited often. The house felt full again—full of second chances.

But peace doesn’t last long in my life. I don’t know why. It’s as if God gives me a glimpse of happiness just to remind me not to get too comfortable.

The first red flag was how he talked to his ex-wife. Long phone calls that felt too friendly for people who’d supposedly grown apart. Anytime she called, his whole demeanor changed. His voice softened, he laughed more, he took his time ending the call. When I mentioned it, he said, “You’re seeing what’s not there. Trust me this once. I’m doing all this for the children.”

Those words sounded familiar, but I didn’t push. I didn’t want to be the nagging wife. I didn’t want to repeat the mistakes his ex made—the ones he’d told me about. So I swallowed my discomfort.

Then came the food. He’d visit his kids and return with bowls of okro stew and banku—his favorite. “Why are you bringing food from another home?” I asked. “Don’t I cook in this house?”

He laughed. “Ah, Benedicta, it’s only food. You know I couldn’t reject it when she offered. That would have been disrespectful.”

Only food? Why did “only food” make him so happy? Why did he lick the bowl clean in a way he never did with my meals? Was I overthinking things that didn’t deserve my attention?

But the day everything shattered was when I finally asked, “If you love your ex this much, why did you marry me?”

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He went straight for the kill. “Do you think you would find me here if she didn’t divorce me?”

I had known pain before, but this one had teeth. It bit into my bones. That one sentence rewrote our entire marriage. Suddenly, everything made sense. I wasn’t his first choice. I was the woman he settled for because the one he truly wanted no longer wanted him.

His words haunted me every night. They played in my mind at dawn like a broken hymn: “If she didn’t divorce me…”

Out of desperation, I picked up his ex-wife’s number from his phone and called her. I wasn’t rude. I wasn’t confrontational. I was a woman begging for clarity. I said, “Please, be honest with me. Do you want him back? If you do, I will leave quietly. I don’t want to fight for a man whose heart isn’t mine.”

She was shocked. She apologized, said she didn’t mean to overstep, that she was just being friendly for the children.

But before my heart could even process that, Akurugu came home like a storm. “How dare you call the mother of my children?” he yelled. “Who set those boundaries you’re talking about? Where are they? Show me so I can jump over them!”

That day, my voice disappeared. My body became air. And right before my eyes, he called his ex-wife and apologized to *her*. He told her, “I’ll make her call you and apologize.”

“You want *me* to apologize? For what?” I refused. I had taken enough insults in my life.

From that day, he stopped talking to me. We live in the same house like strangers. No greetings. No conversation. Just silence and a coldness that cuts deeper than insults.

We’ve been married for two years, yet I feel more single than I ever did. I lie beside him at night and feel like I’m next to a wall. He uses his children as excuses to spend time with his ex-wife. He praises her cooking, her parenting, her kindness. He compares me to her—sometimes subtly, sometimes loudly.

He left me emotionally long ago. Divorce would just make it official.

Now I lie awake at night wondering if I should pack my things and leave. But fear grips me. In Ghana, a woman who leaves two marriages is automatically labeled a problem. They won’t ask what happened. They won’t ask if I was loved or respected. They’ll say, “Her character isn’t good. That’s why no man can keep her.”

And those words scare me more than loneliness. More than heartbreak. More than divorce.

But I’m slowly realizing one thing: staying in a place where I’m unwanted will break me faster than society’s judgment. I don’t want to keep fighting for space in a man’s heart that’s already occupied. I don’t want to be the woman who stays because she fears the opinions of people who don’t even know her pain.

Maybe leaving will make people talk but staying is making me disappear. And I don’t want to disappear anymore.

If anyone had told me that after surviving the humiliation of my first marriage, I’d walk into a second one only to feel even more invisible, I would have argued with them. I truly believed God was giving me a second chance. I thought I had healed, learned, grown. I thought love had finally remembered me.

Is There A Perfect One Out There For Everyone?

But tonight, as I sit here staring at my wedding ring, all I feel is shame, rejection, and the heavy fear of what society will call me if I dare to walk away again.

The right time will come. And when it does, I won’t look back.

—Benedicta

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