I didn’t fall in love with Isaac slowly. It wasn’t one of those loves that tiptoe into your life until you suddenly realize you care. No, Isaac arrived like a kindness I didn’t know I needed, like a balm over a wound I didn’t even realize was there. From the first month we met, he carried himself with a softness that made me feel safe, seen, and chosen.

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He was the kind of man who would help me cook when he visited, who would stand beside me as we washed dishes while teasing me, “Madam corporate woman, you’re just acting soft because I’m here.” On Sundays, he would iron my work clothes for the entire week, and wash my car as if it was his duty to make my life easier. I had dated before, but nobody had ever served me with genuine love like that. So yes, loving him came naturally.

Because I earn far more than him, I promised myself never to make him feel small with money. I stopped asking for things. I avoided putting financial pressure on him. If we went out, I paid. If something needed fixing, I covered it. I felt proud doing it, as though I had been given the chance to be a blessing to a good man.

Then one day, I accidentally discovered Isaac owed people money. Not small money. Plenty money. He owed friends, colleagues, and had even taken loans from financial institutions. Deductions swallowed his salary and left him with almost nothing. He told me it happened during a difficult period of his life and that he was doing his best to manage.

I won’t lie, my heart squeezed painfully, but instead of running, I told myself love meant helping your partner rise. So slowly, carefully, and quietly, I helped him clear everything. I paid off the loans. I settled the debts. And in less than a year, Isaac was debt-free, thanks to me.

I didn’t complain. I didn’t monitor him. I just loved and supported the man I thought was my future. Two years into dating, he said he was ready to marry me. He claimed he had saved enough. He came home one evening with excitement written all over his face and said, “Erica, let’s do the knocking. I’m ready.”

My heart danced. Finally, someone who chose me boldly. His family came for the knocking, we started buying the items, and as usual, I helped financially because I believed marriage was teamwork. Then the storm found me.

Just a few weeks ago, a man barged into our space, shouting Isaac’s name like someone chasing a thief. Before I could even process the drama, the man hurled insults, claiming Isaac owed him and had refused to pick his calls. I stood there trembling, not because of the insults, but because this felt like déjà vu. When the man finally left, Isaac stood there looking guilty.

I asked quietly, “Isaac, what’s going on? I thought we cleared everything.” He sighed. “He helped me with money for my sister’s school and hostel fees. I owe him GHC 8,300.”

I asked again, still calm but dying inside, “Is that all?” “No. There’s also a loan I took for my mother’s surgery. That one is GHC 17,450.”

“Isaac, when your mom was sick, why didn’t you tell me she needed surgery? Why didn’t you say you didn’t have money?” He said, “You’ve done too much for me already. I didn’t want to burden you again.”

Burden. That word hit me harder than anything else. So he owed again. Quietly. Secretly. Comfortably. After everything we had been through. After everything I had paid.

That night, when I lay down, my conscience whispered, “Erica, are you sure you want to bind your future to a man who treats debt like oxygen? A man who hides things? A man you will spend your life rescuing?”

It felt like a slap, because I knew it was true. I love Isaac but I’m scared of his relationship with debt. I’m scared of his silence each time he takes a new loan and I’m scared of living a life where every knock on my door could be another creditor.

I told him we should pause the marriage plans until he clears every debt on his own. He agreed, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes. Now I’m sitting in my room, staring at the list of items we bought, staring at the fabric for the bridesmaids, staring at the ring I’m going to wear and wondering what exactly I’m marrying. A man I love? Or a lifelong financial burden disguised as romance?

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The fear creeps in slowly but powerfully: What if this never ends? What if debt is his addiction? What if I spend the rest of my life paying for his mistakes? I still love him. I still want the softness of the Isaac I met. But love does not pay loans. Love does not erase patterns. Love does not fix someone who refuses to change. So now I’m standing at the edge of a cliff with three options:

Continue with the marriage and hope he becomes financially responsible.
Pause everything until I’m sure.
Or walk away before I sign a lifetime contract of rescuing.

My heart is fighting my mind. My mind is fighting for my future. And I’m stuck between love and regret—terrified of choosing wrong.