I Abandoned My Marriage for a Work Romance — My Ex Moved On When I Wanted Her Back
The gate opened, and I saw another man's slippers where mine had been. Before I could speak, he called, "Ama, he's here." Inside, my daughter laughed, and a man's voice soothed her as if he belonged. Then Ama stepped out wearing a new ring, and my stomach dropped.
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It was a hot Saturday in East Legon. I stood there with biscuits for the children, my apology lodged in my throat. I had promised myself I would walk in, beg, and bring my family back under one roof.
A man I had never met looked me over and did not smile.
"Good afternoon," I said. "I'm Kwame. I'm here for Ama and the kids."
He kept one hand on the gate. "Please wait," he replied, then called into the house, "Ama, he is here."
From inside, I heard my daughter laugh. A football commentator shouted from the television. Then a man's voice, steady and familiar to them, said, "Kwaku, slow down. You will spill the juice."
My chest tightened. That was not my voice.
Ama stepped out a moment later, calm as ever. She wore a simple dress and a calm expression that frightened me more than anger could. Ama did not look like a woman waiting; she looked like a woman who had finished grieving.
Source: UGC
"Kwame," she said softly, as if we were neighbours.
I noticed the ring on her finger. Not our ring. A new one.
In that instant, the story I had been telling myself collapsed. I had abandoned my marriage for a work romance. Now my ex-wife had moved on, and I stood at my old gate as a stranger.
I am forty-eight, born in Kumasi but living in Accra for most of my adult life. I married Ama when we still believed love could carry anything.
We met at Legon. She studied nursing. I studied business. We built our life step by step: a rented room in Adenta, then a two-bedroom house in East Legon. Then my promotions started coming.
I worked as a senior supervisor at a telecommunications office near Accra Central. I left the house before sunrise and returned after dark. I blamed traffic and meetings. I paid school fees, utilities, rent, and groceries. I told myself that providing was the same as being present.
Source: UGC
Ama differed.
She asked for time. She wanted me to attend PTA meetings, sit for dinner, and listen without checking my phone. When I failed, she spoke up. In my tired mind, her words sounded like nagging.
"You always choose work," she would say.
"You don't hear me," she would add.
I started hearing her voice as criticism instead of need. I started bracing myself before I even opened the door; some nights, I stayed at the office to avoid the tension at home.
Then Esi joined our department.
She was twenty-eight, bright-eyed, and quick with laughter. She called me "Chairman" and told me I carried the whole team. She asked about my day and waited for the answer. She praised me in ways Ama no longer did, or in ways I stopped noticing.
Source: UGC
We began working late, then eating late, then talking in ways that felt like relief. I complained about my marriage. Esi listened and shook her head as if Ama was the problem.
"One day someone will appreciate you," she said.
I swallowed those words like medicine.
When Ama found a message on my phone, her hands shook. She asked if I was having an affair. I did not admit everything, but my silence spoke the truth.
After months of cold dinners and sharper arguments, I packed a suitcase and left. I told myself I chose happiness. I did not ask what happiness would cost.
In the beginning, Esi's flat in Osu felt like an escape for me.
No schoolbags on the sofa. Just candles, music, and a balcony view of city lights. We ate takeaway at midnight and laughed like teenagers. I told myself I had finally stepped into a life that fit me.
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For a few weeks, Esi matched the woman in my fantasy. She sent sweet texts. She touched my arm when she walked past. She called me after the meetings to check if I was okay. I slept better, not because I had peace, but because I had novelty.
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Then real life returned, and I realised it never revolves around me.
Esi ran a side business selling skincare, so she left work and went straight into deliveries. She met friends on Fridays and danced until late at night. She answered her phone while I talked. She lived like a woman without children, because she was.
One Friday, I came home exhausted and found her dressing to go out.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"Afro rooftop with the girls," she said. "I told you."
"I thought we would spend time," I replied. "This week has been rough."
She looked at me through the mirror. "Kwame, I cannot cancel my life whenever you feel heavy. You chose this."
Source: UGC
When she left, the flat felt colder than it should have. I sat alone, scrolling through photos of my children at Labadi Beach.
Esi did not cook regularly. Sometimes when she reached home at 10 p.m., she suggested we order food. She left dishes in the sink. She spent money on nails and hair, and I caught myself policing her as if she were my wife.
One evening, I even compared her to Ama.
"Ama used to keep stew in the fridge," I muttered.
Esi dropped her spoon. "So you left her to come and turn me into her?"
"I didn't mean it like that," I lied.
"Yes, you did," she replied. "You want the excitement of me and the structure of her."
I tried to regain control by setting rules.
"Come home earlier," I told her.
"Stop going out every weekend," I added.
Esi's laugh came out sharp. "Kwame, I am not your child. If you wanted a wife, you should have stayed married."
Source: UGC
Work turned awkward, too. We argued at home and carried it to the office. A disagreement over a report became personal. Colleagues started avoiding our desk.
At the same time, memories from my marriage began glowing in my mind. I started missing Ama's predictability, even the parts I used to resent.
I called Ama more often under the excuse of the children.
"How is Kwaku's homework?" I asked.
"Fine," she said, distant.
"Can I pass by?" I asked.
"We can arrange it," she replied, like I was a relative.
Each conversation left me hollow. I realised I had not missed Ama's complaints as much as I had missed recognition. Ama knew my family history and my moods. Esi only knew the charming version of me, and even that charm was fading.
One night, Esi came home late and in a cheerful mood. She kissed my cheek and started chatting about her evening.
"You don't even care that I'm here," I snapped.
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She stared at me. "You wanted freedom from your marriage. Why are you shocked that I have my own life?"
I could not answer. I only heard the truth, and it scared me. I had left stability for a dream, and the dream did not place me at the centre.
That was when I began planning my return.
I told myself I would visit the children, but I drove to East Legon with another purpose.
On the road, I rehearsed my apology like a script. I imagined Ama crying, then softening. I imagined the children cheering. I imagined myself moving back in, wiser and grateful, ready for counselling.
Ama answered my call without warmth.
"Come at three," she said.
At precisely three, I stood at the gate and knocked.
Kojo opened it.
He looked ordinary, not the villain my mind needed. He wore a Black Stars shirt and carried a dish towel. He smelled of stew and soap. He looked like someone who belonged.
Source: UGC
Ama stepped out and greeted me like a guest.
We sat under the mango tree in the yard. The children's voices floated from the living room. I could hear Kojo reminding them to wash their hands before eating.
I forced the words out.
"Ama, I made a mistake," I said. "I left because I felt unappreciated, but I see now that I was selfish. I want to come back."
Ama listened, then exhaled slowly.
"Kwame," she said, "why do you think I kept a spare key for you?"
I blinked. "Because I'm their father. Because we built this."
She shook her head. "We built it together, and you walked away. I begged you to choose us. You chose Esi."
"I can change," I insisted. "I will leave her. I will do counselling."
Ama's eyes filled, but she did not crumble. "I already did the lonely part," she said. "I cannot start that pain again because you feel regret."
Source: UGC
My throat tightened. "So who is he?"
"That is Kojo," she replied, steady. "He is my partner. He shows up. He respects me."
I stared at the new ring on her finger, and my stomach turned hard. My hands began shaking.
Ama leaned forward. "You always thought you could return when you got tired. I am not a waiting room, Kwame."
In that moment, I realised the life I abandoned did not freeze. It kept moving, and it moved on without me.
I left the yard with the children's hugs clinging to my shirt like smoke.
On the drive back to Osu, I wanted to blame Ama, Kojo, and even fate. Instead, I kept hearing her sentence: I am not a waiting room. It sounded harsh, but it was honest.
When I finally reached Esi's flat, she was sitting on the sofa scrolling through her phone.
"You saw them?" she asked.
"Yes," I replied.
She studied my face. "Something happened."
Source: UGC
"Ama has a partner," I said. "He lives with her. With the kids."
Esi nodded slowly. "Okay."
Her calmness annoyed me. "That is all you can say?"
"What do you want me to say?" she asked. "Kwame, you left. You cannot expect her to stop living."
That night, I slept badly. Jealousy kept me awake, even though I had no right to it. I did not call anyone.
In the morning, I made a choice I should have made earlier. I stopped trying to use Esi as a life raft.
"I need to move out," I told her.
She did not shout. She did not beg. She stared at her hands for a long moment.
"So you want to go back?" she asked.
"I can't," I admitted. "Even if I could, I should not run back to escape myself. I need to live alone and face what I did."
Esi's eyes watered. "You used me," she said quietly.
Source: UGC
"I'm sorry," I said, and for once I meant it without bargaining.
Within three weeks, I rented a modest one-bedroom in Madina. The first night, the silence felt loud. I ate rice from a plastic bowl and listened to the ceiling fan squeak.
I started counselling at a small clinic near Legon. Dr Mensah asked questions I could not dodge.
"Why did you call Ama critical?" she asked. "What did you do with her feedback?"
I swallowed. "I defended myself."
Dr Mensah nodded. "You wanted validation more than connection."
Those sessions stripped away my excuses. I stopped calling Ama to test her feelings. I started calling to co-parent properly. I arranged consistent visits. I paid support without drama.
Ama stayed civil, but she kept her boundary. Kojo greeted me politely and stepped back when the children ran to me. His decency made my shame sharper.
I had to accept the consequence. I created the gap, and now I had to live in it.
Source: UGC
I used to believe a man could leave and return as if nothing had happened, as long as he brought money and apologies.
Now I know that belief was arrogance.
I treated Ama's love like a service she owed me. When she asked for time and attention, I called it nagging; when she pointed out my absence, I called it disrespect. I wanted a quiet home, but I did not want to do the work of being emotionally present inside it.
Esi did not offer peace. She offered escape. I mistook the thrill of being admired for the depth of being known.
When the thrill faded, I chased the comfort I had abandoned, assuming Ama would wait. I thought my regret should become her responsibility.
Ama's refusal forced me to see a painful truth: my actions had consequences I could not undo with a speech.
Source: UGC
I still love my children. I still miss my old home. Some evenings, I sit in my Madina room and remember the smell of Ama's stew, the sound of my daughter singing, the way my son used to run to the door when he heard my car. I allowed myself to feel the loss because I earned it.
But I also learned one lesson that may save someone else.
If you feel disconnected in your marriage, do not run to the nearest person who makes you feel impressive. Talk. Listen. Change what needs changing while your partner still has hope.
So here is my question: are you chasing love, or are you chasing validation?
Because validation fades, true love requires attention, humility, and daily effort. If you abandon it for novelty, you might return to find the gate guarded by a stranger, and the life you thought would wait has already moved on.
This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone's privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you'd like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.
Source: YEN.com.gh
