My Husband Left Me While I Was Pregnant

Love felt like a fairytale when I first met him. He seemed perfect and said all the right things. He called me God-sent, and I referred to him as Mr. Right. He truly was my Mr. Right because everything he did or said resonated with me. After our phone conversations, he would say, “I love you so much it hurts to hang up, so you hang up.” We would laugh, and true to his word, I would be the one to end the call. It felt right and enjoyable. Every night before I went to sleep, I would be on the phone with him. After hours of conversation and multiple goodbyes, we would struggle to actually hang up. He would suggest, “What if we don’t hang up and just fall asleep pretending we’re together?” That felt right too, which is why he was my Mr. Right.

I was twenty-three when I found him, and he was thirty-three—older than anyone I had dated before. Friends had told me that dating older men felt better and safer, but I didn’t truly understand until I met James. By the time I was twenty-five, we walked down the aisle together. If you asked me about the happiest moments of my life, I could only recall two, both of which were with James, highlighting the immense joy he brought into my life.

A week after our second wedding anniversary, he told me he wanted a divorce.

We went to bed like any couple, without a fight or bitterness. At dawn, I felt a tap on my thigh. He said, “Alice, wake up, we need to talk.” I was still half-asleep and murmured, “Tomorrow is Saturday; can’t we talk in the morning?” He replied, “I want a divorce.” I thought I misheard him. I quickly sat up in bed and asked, “What did you say?” He repeated, “I said I want a divorce. Don’t overthink it and don’t ask questions. It’s not about you; it’s me. Everything is wrong with me, and I need space to fix my life.”

“Dear James, there’s no such thing as your life; it’s our lives. The two shall become one, remember? Tell me what’s wrong; we can figure it out together and come out stronger.” He said, “You don’t understand.” I insisted, “Make me understand.”

He turned away from me, facing the wall, and went back to sleep. The next day, he packed a few things and left. A few days later, I received divorce papers.

Two days before this turmoil began, I thought I had good news to share with him, but I wasn’t entirely sure. I suspected I was pregnant. I wanted to wait a few days to confirm before surprising him with the positive test. But that never happened because my husband wanted out.

On the day I received the divorce papers, I took the test and confirmed I was pregnant. I didn’t want him to think I was using the pregnancy to manipulate him, so I kept it to myself, hoping I could still change his mind. I told him I wouldn’t sign the papers because I loved him too much to let him go. He replied, “You don’t get to decide to let me go because I’m already gone.” I sent elders and a delegation from my church to plead with him, but they all returned with the same message: “He has made up his mind not to return to the marriage.”

Realizing I had lost, I finally told him, “I’m pregnant. I didn’t get the chance to tell you because of everything happening. And please, don’t think it’s just an excuse. I really am pregnant, and I want you to know.” He responded, “You’re still young and might want to marry again. If you think you can do it as a single mother, then go ahead and have the baby.”

That hurt deeply, but I understood that nothing would change his mind, so I accepted my defeat with the grace of a woman after grieving like a child. I contemplated his words and whether I should keep the baby. One day I wanted to have it; the next, I considered abortion. I called my older sister to discuss my pregnancy. She said, “That beast of a man doesn’t deserve your child. Don’t let him trap you with a baby he might not care for. Get rid of it and be free.”

I weighed my sister’s advice against James’s words. One morning, I woke up and went to the hospital to terminate the pregnancy. I was fourth in line. Every thirty minutes, they called the next person into the room. As my turn approached, I still wasn’t sure about my decision. When they called for me, I asked the woman behind me to go ahead. She questioned why, and I replied, “I’m not ready yet.” As soon as she entered, I got up and left.

My sister was right; James was a beast, but what I carried inside me wasn’t a beast. It was the result of my own egg being fertilized. I played a fifty percent role in creating what was inside me, and I wasn’t going to let it go to waste. I decided to keep my baby.

One week after I gave birth, I heard from a friend that “James got married.” I asked, “He did?” She confirmed, “Yes, rumor has it that the lady is from the US and they were childhood sweethearts.”

I thought I had moved on and healed, but I realized my wound was only scabbing. The news of his marriage ripped the scab off, and I began to bleed again. “Childhood sweetheart? Where was she during our three years together? He left me, and less than a year later, he’s married again?”

Everything started to make sense: his quick departure from our marriage, leaving without a solid reason, and his indifference toward the child I was carrying—all of it fell into place. I finally understood why he said, “It’s not about you…” Yes, it wasn’t about me; it was about an old flame rekindled without my knowledge.

This realization set my heart free. All those times I pondered what went wrong, searching my soul and heart for answers, I found nothing to explain why he left. I felt haunted by the question. Now, if someone asks me what happened, I have a clear answer: “Nothing happened. He left to be with an old flame.”

He lives in Ghana, and the woman has returned to the US. I have his daughter, and I believe he knows I’ve given birth because his younger sister is aware and has visited me twice, but he hasn’t reached out—not even a call to ask about the baby. The last time his sister wanted to take a picture to send him, I said no. He doesn’t need a picture to know about his own child. If he doesn’t want her, that’s fine. I’m keeping her for myself. I can raise her on my own.

—Alice,  
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