My Husband Cried Over His Side Chic — I Comforted Him, Then Left
Ken's sobs shook our East Legon bedroom as he clutched my waist, begging me to hold him together. He did not say "side chic". He did not mention her name. He only kept whispering, "She is gone," while his phone lit up with notifications, then went silent. I stroked his head, murmured, "It will pass," and decided, in that moment, to leave him quietly with the children.
Source: UGC
Rain tapped the louvre blades. The power flickered, then steadied. Ken sat on the edge of the bed in his office shirt, tie loosened, eyes raw, breathing as if he had run.
"What happened?" I asked, using the voice wives use when they are still trying to save things.
He shook his head. "I have messed up something important."
"Work?"
He swallowed. "Not exactly."
His phone buzzed again. He stared at the screen as if it could change its mind, then tossed it face down. When I reached for his hand, he gripped mine too tightly.
"I thought I had… someone," he said, words breaking. "Someone who understood me. Now they have blocked me. Just like that."
From the hallway, Ama's drowsy knock landed softly. "Mum, is Daddy okay?"
I stood and opened the door a crack. "He is fine, my love. Go and sleep."
When I returned, Ken's face crumpled. "I cannot breathe, Adina. I feel stupid."
Source: UGC
I pulled him into my lap like he was the child, not the father. "Breathe," I said. "Talk to me slowly."
Ken never said, "My side chic dumped me." He did something more realistic and more insulting. He cried about being "played" by someone who "used him", then tried to fold me into the role of counsellor, as if my loyalty could mop up the mess his secrecy made. I held him, gentle and steady, while my mind moved ahead to the only honest plan left.
Eight years earlier, Ken and I married at a church in Labone. He advanced in corporate finance, a job defined by spreadsheets and late meetings. I built a small consultancy from home, helping start-ups tidy accounts and write proposals. We looked stable, so proud. Two children anchored us: Ama, twelve, and Kojo, nine.
Our days ran on routines: school runs, traffic on the Ring Road, weekend jollof, Sunday visits to my mother in Madina. Ken travelled sometimes, usually to Kumasi or Takoradi for meetings, and he returned with stories about airports and hotel breakfast. I trusted him because I wanted to.
Source: UGC
Then the inconsistencies started. Ken began taking calls on the balcony and lowering his voice when I came near. He slept with his phone under his pillow. He laughed at the messages and angled the screen away from me. Once, I reached for his phone to use the torch during a power cut, and he snapped, "Leave it." He apologised quickly, kissed my forehead, saying he was stressed.
At first, I blamed work. Everyone in Accra blamed work for everything. But the late nights multiplied. The "client dinner" became "a quick drink with the boys" and then silence until midnight. When he came home, he smelled like perfume that was not mine.
One afternoon, while he napped in the living room, a notification flashed across his screen. A woman's name I did not recognise, with a heart emoji. My stomach tightened. I did not confront him. I felt a need to know the complete truth.
Source: UGC
That was when I began checking his phone in secret. I learned his passcode from the way his thumb moved. I opened hidden folders and saw dating profiles, flirty chats, and plans that excluded his family. I watched him swipe through women like a game. I watched him claim he wanted "peace" while I folded uniforms and paid bills.
I kept my face calm because my children needed it. I told myself I was gathering facts, not starting a war. But every message widened the gap in my chest and turned my love into careful observation.
Ken did not become a cartoon villain overnight. He remained the man who carried Kojo on his shoulders at Labadi Beach and fixed Ama's braids when I travelled for work. That was what made the betrayal slippery. He performed family life.
His mood shifted first. He stared into his tea as if it reproached him. He skipped breakfast and later complained of headaches. If I asked what was wrong, he rubbed his temples and said, "It's nothing. Just pressure at the office."
Source: UGC
I played my part.
"Do you want me to cook light soup? Should I call the doctor?" I asked, voice warm.
He sighed as if I were the problem. "You worry too much, Adina."
Meanwhile, his phone kept telling the truth. He messaged women during meetings. He sent voice notes from the car park. He flirted like he had no children sleeping under the same roof. One thread stood out, a woman saved as "Nana A." The messages had a hunger in them that made my skin prickle.
He wrote, I need someone who understands me.
She replied, Then stop pretending at home.
Slowly, by slowly, I watched him invest. He bought data bundles, always "for work". He started going to the gym, coming back late again and glowing with effort that never reached me. He took longer showers. He sprayed cologne before stepping out "to buy bread".
One Tuesday evening, he announced, "I have a meeting with the regional team. It may run late."
Source: UGC
I nodded, stirring the stew. "I will keep dinner."
At 9 p.m., I checked his location through the app he had linked to our family plan, the one he forgot existed. It placed him not at his office in Ridge, but at a lounge near Osu. My hands shook, then steadied. I did not call. I put Kojo to bed. I helped Ama revise her science notes. I waited.
He returned close to midnight, eyes bright and guilty. "The meeting dragged," he said, slipping off his shoes.
"Ei, Ken, you must be tired," I replied, handing him a glass of drinking water.
He smiled in relief, like a thief spared at the door.
The next morning, I opened his phone and saw the photos he had sent to Nana A. A selfie in our bathroom mirror. A line that made my stomach turn: I wish you were here. She replied with laughing emojis and a promise to "spoil" him on his next trip.
Source: UGC
I began moving quietly. I separated my business income into a different account. I copied our marriage certificate and the children's birth certificates, then kept them in a folder under my laptop. I called my friend Efua in Spintex and casually asked about vacant apartments in her area. I memorised the number of a lawyer my cousin used for her divorce.
Then money started slipping. Ken delayed the children's school fees citing "payroll delays". Yet I saw transfers in his chat, tagged "for your hair" and "transport". When I asked, he said, "I am managing investments," and changed the subject.
At home, I stayed gentle. I listened to Ken complain about "office politics". I gave him advice he did not deserve. I massaged his shoulders while he typed secret messages with his back turned. Some nights, he held me and whispered, "You know you are my peace," and I stared into the dark, thinking of the woman who believed she was his escape.
Source: UGC
I did not explode because rage would have warned him. Silence let me plan.
The week Ken's secret romance collapsed, he carried the sadness into our house like a wet suitcase. He stopped eating my food. He stared at the wall during the evening news. He snapped at Kojo for humming. He kept checking his phone, his thumb moving quickly, then pausing as if he awaited mercy.
"Ken, are you sure everything is okay?" I asked.
He forced a laugh. "Adina, you worry too much."
But his eyes had the faraway look of a man facing rejection in real time.
On Thursday, he came home earlier than usual, shoulders slumped, tie missing. He walked past the children without greeting. He sat on the sofa and put his head in his hands.
I sat beside him. "Talk to me."
Then he cried. Full sobs, shaking, the kind that made me glance at the hallway in case the children saw.
Source: UGC
"She has ended it," he whispered.
"Who?" I asked, keeping my tone gentle and feigning confusion.
He swallowed. "It is nothing. I am just tired."
That night, when he finally slept, I opened his phone. He had not changed his passcode. Ken had deleted some threads, but he kept Nana A's chat, maybe because it was the one that mattered. Her last messages sat there, clean and brutal. She told him she did not want exclusivity.
She said she still wanted to "see what is out there", and he should not pressure her. She wrote that his home situation was "too heavy" and that she had not agreed to take on drama. Then she blocked him.
Ken replied with paragraphs, begging, apologising, offering to travel, promising to "sort things out". He even sent a voice note, raw with tears.
I stared at the screen and felt a slow, stunned relief. The woman had not stolen my husband. He had offered himself and still got refused. His heartbreak was self-inflicted, wrapped in lies, delivered back to him with interest.
Source: UGC
In the morning, I served him tea and said, "Whatever is worrying you, we will face it." He squeezed my hand like I was his rescuer. Inside, I quietly counted days.
After that week, I stopped thinking of leaving as a reaction. I treated it like a project with deadlines. I woke before dawn, answered client emails, and transferred money in measured amounts to avoid the appearance of panic. I updated my business contracts and directed my income to myself.
I booked a consultation with a lawyer and told Ken it was a meeting with a new client. The lawyer listened, asked questions about property and custody, and explained my options plainly. I left with a checklist and a weight lifted from my ribs.
I spoke to the children's school next. I asked about transfer procedures, not to disrupt them, but to have a plan. I also talked to my aunt in Dansoman about after-school care, framing it as "extra support" for my work. She agreed without asking too much.
Source: UGC
Househunting became my hobby. During lunch breaks, I toured places in Spintex and Ashaiman with an estate agent who assumed I was relocating for business. I measured rooms with my eyes, pictured Ama's books on a shelf, Kojo's football in a corner, and my front door.
At home, Ken stayed trapped in his wounded pride. He hovered around his phone, hoping Nana A would unblock him. He pretended nothing was wrong, but he moved like a man carrying stones. Some nights he drank malt in the dark and stared at the ceiling.
He still came to me for comfort.
"I feel like I am failing," he said one Saturday.
I rubbed his back. "You are overwhelmed. Rest. Pray. Focus on what matters."
He nodded, grateful for my kindness, and I felt the irony tighten like a thread. I gave him the exact advice he refused to follow when he was chasing another woman.
Source: UGC
I set boundaries quietly. I stopped sharing my passwords. I insisted on receipts for "work trips". I kept records of each suspicious transfer and every deleted message I had managed to recover. I did not threaten Ken. I prepared.
By the time February ended, I had my deposit, my lawyer learned my name, and I prepared to sign for a small two-bedroom house near Community 18. Ken still thought his biggest problem was a woman who would not answer his calls. He did not know his real loss was packing itself, box by box.
People assume betrayal arrives with shouting, broken plates, and public disgrace. Sometimes it comes with small lies and a spouse who still kisses your forehead before leaving the house. I learned that the most dangerous part of infidelity is not only the cheating or the flirting. It is the way it trains you to doubt your instincts.
Source: UGC
For months, I tried to explain Ken's behaviour as stress. I tried to fix what I had not caused. I offered soup, prayers, soft words, and patience. Meanwhile, he used my patience as cover. He wanted a new life without paying the cost of ending the old one.
When Nana A rejected him, he finally tasted the kind of uncertainty he served me daily. I did not celebrate his pain because pain is pain. I also did not rescue him from the consequences of his choices. I chose my children and my sanity.
My comfort that night was not weakness. It was a strategy. It kept my home calm while I built a safe path out. It protected Ama and Kojo from adult problems they did not create. It also reminded me that I can act with dignity even when someone else behaves without it.
If you find yourself in a marriage where your peace depends on pretending, pay attention.
Source: UGC
Gather facts. Protect your finances. Speak to someone you trust. Get professional advice. Do not rush into fights that leave you exposed.
I am leaving, not because another woman "won", but because I refuse to live as a backup plan in my own home. I will rebuild slowly and quietly, showing my children that boundaries are love with strength.
The question I keep asking myself, and now I ask you, is simple: if love requires you to shrink into silence, what exactly are you saving?
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
