My Boyfriend Used Me And Other Women As His Financial Plan — So I Kicked Him Out and Blocked Him
I was standing at my doorway with his backpack at my feet when my phone kept vibrating. Jude’s name flashed again and again, and that was when something in me finally snapped. I told him to leave. Not later. Not after explanations. Now. He laughed at first, the soft laugh he used when he thought he could talk his way out of anything. I didn’t laugh back. My hands were shaking as I listed the money, the lies, the months I had shrunk myself to keep him comfortable.
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When he reached for my arm, I stepped back. The room felt too small for the truth filling it. I said I knew about the other woman. I said I knew I was not the only one paying his bills.
His face changed. No anger. No apology. Just calculation.
I blocked his number while he was still standing there. One tap. Silence.
I locked the door and slid down against it, breathing hard. That was the moment I understood: I had not lost a boyfriend. I had escaped a plan.
I met Jude on a quiet afternoon when the café was half-empty, and the air smelled like roasted beans and rain. I had gone there to clear my head after a long week, not expecting anything more than a warm drink and silence. Jude asked if the seat across from me was taken. He smiled easily, the kind of smile that made conversation feel natural instead of forced.
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He told me he was on the edge of something big. A new opportunity abroad. A chance to finally step into the life he had been preparing for. He spoke with confidence, not arrogance, and I admired that. I was used to men who either bragged too much or said nothing at all. Jude seemed balanced, thoughtful.
We started meeting regularly. Coffee turned into walks. Walks turned into long conversations about dreams, fears, and the pressure of becoming something meaningful in a city that demanded resilience. He listened when I talked about my work, my ambitions, my worries about stability and time. He remembered small details. That mattered to me.
When he told me he needed temporary housing while preparing for his move, it felt reasonable. When he mentioned application fees, travel costs, and living expenses, it sounded like a short-term sacrifice for a long-term reward. He framed everything as “we,” even though we had only just started dating. That word softened my doubts.
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I had worked hard to build a sense of independence. I wasn’t rich, but I was careful. Lending him money didn’t feel reckless at first. It felt supportive. Like investing in someone who would eventually stand beside me, not behind me.
But beneath that generosity was fear. Fear of being alone. Fear of missing out on something that looked like partnership. I told myself that relationships required patience, that success didn’t come overnight. I ignored the quiet voice asking why so much depended on me.
Friends raised eyebrows early. My cousin Ama asked why his plans never seemed to move forward. My colleague Kojo joked that Jude had too much free time for someone chasing opportunities abroad. I defended him every time. I said growth looked different for everyone.
I started covering more than I planned. Rent gaps. Emergency expenses. “Just until next month.” Each request came wrapped in affection and reassurance. He would promise that once things aligned, he would repay me. That he would take care of me the way I had taken care of him.
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Emotionally, I was carrying more than money. I became his sounding board, his motivation speaker, his safety net. When I asked about applications or interviews, he’d sigh and say I didn’t understand how difficult things were. That pressure was subtle but constant. If I questioned him, I was unsupportive. If I hesitated, I was doubting his potential.
I was tired, but I told myself tiredness meant I was trying. I convinced myself love was supposed to stretch you. What I didn’t admit was how much of myself I was shrinking to keep him comfortable.
By the time I noticed the imbalance clearly, I was already deeply invested. Not just financially, but emotionally. Walking away felt like admitting failure. And I wasn’t ready for that truth yet.
The first crack appeared quietly. Jude stopped talking about timelines. When I asked about his applications, he’d change the subject or say he was “waiting to hear back.” Weeks passed with no updates. His days stayed the same, but his needs increased.
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I started noticing how often his phone was face down. How quickly he closed apps when I walked by. Once, while we were having dinner, a message popped up with a heart emoji and a name I didn’t recognise. He laughed it off and said it was nothing. I told myself not to overthink.
Money became a constant tension. He’d approach me carefully, like someone testing weak ground. “Just this once,” he’d say. “I’ll pay you back as soon as things shift.” When I hesitated, his tone would change. He’d remind me of how much pressure he was under, how alone he felt.
“You’re the only one who believes in me,” he told me one night. I remember feeling both special and trapped by that sentence.
My friends stopped pretending. Ama asked directly if I was okay. Kojo warned me that love should not feel like sponsorship. Their words made me defensive. I accused them of judging Jude unfairly. Looking back, I was protecting an image, not a person.
The arguments began slowly, then all at once. I asked why nothing was moving. He accused me of rushing him. I questioned where the money was going. He said I was becoming controlling.
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One evening, after I refused to send money for another “urgent expense,” he went silent. No calls. No messages. Three days passed. When he finally reached out, he acted like nothing had happened.
“I just needed space,” he said. “You know I’m dealing with a lot.”
Something in me hardened then. Love shouldn’t feel like punishment for asking questions.
What made everything worse was how Jude began involving my emotions whenever money wasn’t immediately available. If I looked tired or hesitant, he would sigh deeply and say things like, “I thought you understood me better than anyone.” Those words stayed with me long after the conversations ended. I would lie awake replaying them, wondering if I was becoming selfish, if I was failing as a partner.
He also started creating artificial urgency. Suddenly, every request was tied to a deadline—fees that had to be paid “today,” opportunities that would vanish “by morning.” When I asked for proof, he accused me of treating him like a child. “Do you want receipts or do you want a future with me?” he snapped once, his voice sharp enough to make me flinch.
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The pressure seeped into my daily life. I stopped enjoying simple things because I was always calculating—how much I had left, how much he might need next. Even moments that should have felt romantic were overshadowed by anxiety. When he hugged me, I wondered if affection was genuine or strategic.
By then, I wasn’t just exhausted; I was emotionally cornered. Every boundary I tried to set was reframed as betrayal. And slowly, without realising it, I had been trained to feel guilty for protecting myself.
Still, I stayed. I wanted clarity. I wanted honesty. Instead, I got deflection. He’d promise to show me emails or documents, then forget. He’d say tomorrow, next week, soon.
The third escalation came when a friend mentioned seeing Jude out late, laughing with a woman I didn’t know. When I asked him directly, his face tightened.
“You don’t trust me,” he said sharply. “I trust actions,” I replied. “And I don’t see any.”
That turned into our biggest fight yet. He accused me of listening to outsiders. I accused him of living off hope and my wallet. For the first time, he didn’t apologise. He just stared at me, cold and distant.
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That night, I lay awake realising how exhausted I was. Not just from the arguments, but from carrying a relationship that only moved forward when I pushed it.
I hadn’t fully accepted it yet, but something was unravelling. The version of Jude I believed in was fading. And I was afraid of what I might discover if I stopped looking away.
The truth didn’t come from Jude. It came from a message I almost ignored.
It was from Lina, a mutual acquaintance I knew through a friend group. We weren’t close, but we had shared a few conversations at gatherings. Her message was careful, almost hesitant. She asked if Jude was okay, if everything between us was fine.
I replied politely, confused. That was when she told me.
Jude had moved into another woman’s apartment over a week earlier. Not temporarily. Not as a favour. Fully moved in. Lina had visited them together and assumed I already knew. The woman’s name was Sera. According to Lina, Jude had told Sera he was between jobs and needed support while “waiting for an opportunity abroad.”
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My stomach dropped. The words blurred on the screen, but their meaning landed sharply. I was not imagining the inconsistencies. I wasn’t paranoid. I was one piece of a system.
I confronted Jude that evening. He didn’t deny it. That hurt more than any excuse could have.
“She understands me,” he said calmly. “She believes in my vision.”
I asked him why he was still asking me for money if he had somewhere else to stay. He shrugged.
“You offered,” he said. “I never forced you.”
That sentence rewrote everything. All the tenderness, the promises, the shared dreams—they weren’t intimacy. They were strategy.
As I asked more questions, more layers peeled away. Sera wasn’t the first. There had been others before me. Women who helped with rent, food, contacts, emotional reassurance. Each of us had been told we were special. Each of us had been fed the same story about a future just out of reach.
I felt humiliated, but beneath that was something colder: clarity. Jude didn’t stumble into this pattern. He designed it.
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I remembered every moment I ignored my instincts. Every time I defended him. Every time I explained his behavior to others instead of listening to myself. The betrayal wasn’t just romantic. It was psychological.
That night, I went through my messages, my transfers, my conversations. The evidence was there. A timeline of generosity met with stagnation. Support met with manipulation.
I cried, but not the way I expected. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet and steady, like mourning something that had never truly existed.
What hurt most wasn’t the money. It was realising my love had been reduced to utility. That my patience, empathy, and belief had been exploited.
By morning, something in me had shifted. I wasn’t angry yet. I was resolved.
I understood then that waiting for accountability from Jude was pointless. The only person I could protect now was myself.
I didn’t announce my decision. I didn’t threaten or negotiate. I simply acted.
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When Jude came by later that day, he was casual, almost relaxed. He spoke as if nothing had changed, as if I was still a resource he could tap into with the right tone. That was when I asked him to pack his things.
He laughed, assuming it was another argument that would dissolve with time. When he realised I wasn’t moving, his voice shifted. He tried reason first, then affection, then guilt.
“You’re really going to throw everything away?” he asked. “There was no ‘everything,’” I replied. “Only me giving and you taking.”
I handed him his backpack. I told him he had five minutes. No speeches. No explanations. He stared at me like I was a stranger.
When he stepped outside, I locked the door. My hands were shaking, but my chest felt lighter than it had in months. I blocked his number immediately. Then his email. Then every platform I could think of. I didn’t want closure from him. I wanted silence.
The days after were strange. Relief and grief arrived together. I replayed conversations, questioned myself, wondered how I had missed something so obvious. But instead of sinking into shame, I chose honesty.
I told my friends everything. Ama listened without judgment. Kojo reminded me that manipulation works precisely because it mimics care. Their support grounded me.
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Financially, I faced reality. Some money was gone forever. I adjusted my budget, cut unnecessary expenses, and focused on rebuilding stability. It wasn’t easy, but it was real. For the first time in a long while, my effort benefited only me.
I also took responsibility for my boundaries. I stopped explaining myself excessively. I learned to say no without apology. When someone made me uncomfortable, I paid attention instead of rationalising.
Weeks later, I heard through others that Jude’s arrangement with Sera had collapsed. Apparently, she had discovered messages and patterns similar to mine. I felt no satisfaction, only confirmation. People like him repeat cycles until the cycle no longer works.
I didn’t reach out. I didn’t need to.
Instead, I invested in myself. I poured energy into my work, explored a business idea I had delayed, and reconnected with parts of myself I had neglected. My confidence returned slowly, but it returned stronger.
I learned that consequences aren’t always dramatic. Sometimes karma is simply access revoked. Support withdrawn. Doors closed quietly and permanently.
Jude lost something he never valued properly. I regained something I almost gave away entirely: my sense of worth.
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What this experience taught me is simple, but not easy: love cannot survive where accountability is absent. Care is not proven by promises or vulnerability alone, but by consistent effort and mutual responsibility.
I learned that being supportive does not mean sacrificing yourself. Empathy without boundaries invites exploitation, especially when someone has learned how to turn affection into leverage. I had mistaken patience for loyalty and generosity for partnership.
Walking away didn’t make me heartless. It made me honest.
Now, when I enter any relationship, I pay attention to balance. I ask myself whether support flows both ways, whether words align with action, whether I feel respected instead of drained. Love should feel grounding, not like a constant test of endurance.
The hardest part wasn’t losing Jude. It was forgiving myself for ignoring my intuition. But growth comes from facing uncomfortable truths, not avoiding them.
So I ask this: if love costs you your peace, your stability, and your voice—what exactly are you paying for?
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.
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