I just finished reading Dufie’s story, where her boyfriend’s wife called her and asked for money. It felt like someone had peeled open a part of my life I’ve kept buried for years. I realized I had lived a similar story, only that mine stretched longer, cut deeper, and left scars that still ache when I remember certain details. This is my story.

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I met him when I was still very young. We started as friends, innocent friends who talked about everything and nothing. Over the years, that friendship became the safest place I knew. He understood me in ways no one else did, and I trusted him completely. Eventually, friendship turned into love, and love turned into a relationship that felt unbreakable. We were emotionally bonded long before we ever called it dating.

Our relationship was mostly long-distance, but distance never felt like a problem. We were always on the phone—video calls, texts, voice notes. We talked for hours without getting tired. There was always something to laugh about, something to plan, something to dream about. He made me feel seen, valued, and chosen. I truly believed I was his only woman, his future.

At the time we started dating seriously, I had just completed senior high school. He took responsibility for my education, enrolled me into university, and supported me fully. I studied hard and graduated with a first class. I saw that as proof of our partnership, our teamwork. In my mind, we were already married in spirit; the ceremony was just a matter of time. We dated for fourteen years. Fourteen years of growing together, planning together, and building what I thought was a shared destiny.

Eventually, he started talking seriously about marriage. Plans were being made. Discussions became more concrete. I felt like my patience had finally paid off. Then one evening, something small but strange happened. He received a phone call, and the way he reacted felt off. His voice changed. His body language shifted. I couldn’t explain it, but my spirit refused to rest.

I started paying closer attention. One day, I took his phone. What I saw shattered me in a way I still struggle to describe. The man I had loved an dated for fourteen years was already married. Not only married, but married for the same fourteen years we had been together. He had three children.

I confronted him in tears. I couldn’t breathe properly as the words left my mouth. He broke down, confessed, apologized, and explained. His explanations came in waves—confusion, regret, promises, justifications. I was torn apart. I didn’t know who I was anymore or how my entire adult life had been built on a lie.

Yet, I stayed.

I don’t know if it was love, shock, fear of starting over, or the depth of our history, but I stayed. I paused the marriage preparations and packed everything away. Strangely, his behavior toward me didn’t change negatively. If anything, he became more attentive, more loving, more desperate to keep me. He promised everything.

Later, I discovered that his wife had been living in Kumasi all along. He had perfected a schedule: two weeks with me, two weeks with her. A neat, cruel balance. I didn’t even know his wife was aware of me until something in me pushed me to call her.

When I called, I introduced myself calmly. She said she knew about me, but she didn’t know how long I had been in the picture. When I told her, there was silence. Then she cried. She begged me to allow him to take proper care of their children. That broke something in me. This was a man who claimed he would die for me, yet his wife was begging me for basic responsibility.

One day, I made a decision that surprised even me. I went to her house. She was shocked when she saw me. She asked how I found her. I told her the truth—that I had been sending my driver to deliver cakes to her children on their birthdays. We sat down and talked for hours, woman to woman, pain to pain.

I promised her I would help her financially using her own husband’s money.

She didn’t believe me at first. She asked if I planned to leave him. I told her no, not yet. Not until I was sure she and the children were financially stable. She cried and asked if I would still be sleeping with him. That question hurt me deeply, but I told her not to worry.

I began taking money from him with different excuses. Because he loved me and because he felt guilty, he never questioned me. Month after month, I sent his wife GHC5,000. She was grateful beyond words. I did this consistently for two years.

The years living with that man cost me dearly. I went through emotional exhaustion, repeated abortions, and a growing emptiness I could no longer ignore. Love had turned into survival, and survival had turned into self-destruction. One day, when I’d made enough from him, I walked away.

It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. He begged. His siblings begged. His father begged. Friends begged. They told me I could become a second wife, that everything could still work. I had already taken enough from him, from the situation, from myself. I blocked him everywhere and disappeared from his life.

What Will Make You Leave Me After Forty Years Of Marriage?

I didn’t disappear from his wife’s life, though. I gave his wife all tips to make him happy but till date, nothing works well between them and she mentioned of leaving the marriage which I advised her against because of the kids. I give her advice, support, and strength. Till today, we still talk every week. He doesn’t know. She remains grateful, but she’s also afraid I might one day return to him.

I won’t. Love shouldn’t cost you your peace, your body, your dignity, or your future. I learned that too late, but I learned it fully.

—Antwiwaa

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