Eight years into our marriage, I thought I knew my husband, Caleb, like the back of my hand. We’d weathered highs and lows—who hasn’t?—and I honestly believed our bond was solid. Stable. Predictable.
Then little cracks began to show.
It started with him tossing out strange conversation starters at dinner:
“Some cultures have relationships that are… more efficient.”
Or, “You know, there are ways to share the load so no one’s overworked.”
I thought it was just another one of his short-lived obsessions—like the time he got into beekeeping videos or his brief but passionate affair with urban gardening. I even teased him about it.
But his tone this time was different.
One night, while I was vacuuming, he leaned in the doorway and said, “Wouldn’t it be easier if you had someone to help with all this?”
“Sure,” I replied. “That’s what housekeepers are for. Too bad we can’t afford one.”
Instead of laughing, he just smiled—tight and strange—and hummed like he was agreeing with himself more than me.
Then came the secrecy with his phone. Taking it everywhere, smirking at messages, locking himself in the bathroom for half an hour at a time. When I asked, he waved me off with, “Just dumb videos.”
I knew something was coming. I just didn’t know it would arrive on two legs and with lip gloss.
The night it happened, I was chopping carrots when the front door opened. Caleb walked in—cheerful in a way that set off alarms—and behind him was a woman I’d never seen before.
“Gemma,” he said with way too much excitement, “this is Liana.”
I blinked. “Hi… Liana.”
She smiled, but her eyes darted to him like she was waiting for permission to speak.
He took a deep breath. “Gemma… Liana is going to be my second wife.”
I laughed. Loudly. Because obviously, this was a joke.
It wasn’t.
He launched into some bizarre pitch about “shared responsibilities” and “building a supportive household.” How I was always tired, how this would be good for all of us.
“A sister-wife,” I said flatly.
“She’s caring. Smart. She understands my vision,” he said like he was describing a business merger.
I should have thrown him out. Instead, something inside me went cold and crystal-clear.
“Okay,” I said, setting down the knife. “You can have a second wife.”
His face lit up. “Really? You mean it?”
“Yes. But she’s not allowed anywhere near my second husband.”
The silence was beautiful.
Caleb’s jaw dropped. “W-what?”
“You heard me. Equality, Caleb. You get another partner, so do I. Someone to cook me dinner, rub my feet, make me feel like a queen.”
“That’s disgusting!” he barked.
“Oh, is it?” I asked sweetly. “Funny how it only becomes disgusting when it’s me having the fun.”
Liana looked like she was auditioning for a disappearing act. Caleb, red-faced, told her she should go. She bolted.
By morning, he’d completely abandoned the idea, muttering that it was “stupid” and “not worth it.” I told him I’d already made a dating profile and was getting plenty of interest from men who could cook.
That same week, I packed a bag, took our daughter, and moved in with my best friend Tasha, who handed me wine and said, “Welcome to freedom.”
Caleb texted. Called. Begged. Apologized. Promised therapy. But I knew exactly what he was—someone who dressed up control as generosity.
I filed for divorce.
Months later, in our little apartment, my daughter and I sat at the kitchen table doing homework. She laughed at something silly, and I felt a wave of peace so deep it almost startled me.
Sometimes, you only need to set one impossible rule to see the truth. Caleb never wanted an equal partner—he wanted someone who would quietly accept less.
I was done being that someone.
Now, my life is mine. My terms. My joy. My freedom. And absolutely, positively, no extra wives.