When I married Daniel, I knew his ex-wife, Julia, would always be part of his life. They shared a teenage son, and I respected that. What I didn’t expect was how much she would still be part of our marriage.
Julia texted him constantly — about school updates, dog food brands, even asking his opinion on her new couch. I told myself it was harmless. That co-parenting sometimes blurred lines.
But one night, she called him crying after a breakup.
Daniel didn’t hesitate. He put down his fork in the middle of our dinner and said he had to go “make sure she was okay.”
When I finally told him how much that hurt me, he brushed it off with one sentence:
“She’s the mother of my child — have some compassion.”
That’s when it hit me.
Compassion wasn’t the problem — respect was.
I wasn’t just sharing my husband with his past. I was competing with someone who no longer wore his ring but still had his loyalty.
So I stopped asking for space.
I packed my things quietly, walked away, and left him to the life he clearly hadn’t moved on from.
And now?
They’re back together.
Turns out, I wasn’t imagining the third person in our marriage — I was living with it.
