We met at the bank—how ordinary, right? I was there to handle a transaction; he was there in uniform. But there was nothing ordinary about the way he looked at me. He smiled, asked for my number, and before the day ended, he called. His voice was confident and warm. “I took your number because I want to see what the future holds for us,” he said. I blushed.
Every evening after work, he’d pull up outside my house, and we’d sit in his car, just talking. Hours would melt away. We shared stories, laughter, and silences so comfortable they felt like music. That car became our little world. It was where he asked me to be his, and it was where we shared our first kiss. I thought, “This must be what they mean by love in the little things.”
As time passed, he invited me to his place. I started visiting every weekend—cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, and running errands. I made the place feel like home. I stocked his fridge, folded his shirts, and made sure there was always a hot meal waiting. And when he left my place, he’d smile and say, “Tell your mom I’ll come home to see her soon.” He was comfortable. I made sure of it.
But somewhere between folding his clothes and waiting on empty promises, I realized I was giving too much and receiving almost nothing.
He never offered money, not even for transport. I had just finished school; I wasn’t working yet. When I finally gathered the courage to say something, he looked surprised. “I didn’t know you needed money,” he said.
From then on, he’d hand me GHC100 after I’d done it all—cook, clean, care. He’d say, “That’s all I have.” Sometimes he’d promise to send more, but the momo alert never came unless I chased it down. And even when it did, the tone was always the same: as if I should be grateful for crumbs.
One evening, I asked him to buy me food on his way to mine. His response crushed me: “Didn’t your mom cook? Why do you like an easy life like this?” I didn’t even argue. When he arrived, he called. “Where’s the food?” I asked. “What food?” he snapped and hung up.
That was my breaking point.
I didn’t step outside. I didn’t return his calls. I left every message on read. He tried using friends to get through to me, but I stayed silent. He got angry and called me a gold digger. Then—right after the insult—he texted, “Come over.”
I didn’t go.
Since then, things have shifted. He sends me money now—sometimes without me asking. He orders food for me. He plans dates and talks about going out, not just staying in. Just yesterday, he sent me GHC500—the most he’s ever given me—and wrote, “Don’t you see I’ve changed? Stop punishing me.”
And the truth is… I still love him. I wish I didn’t, but I do.
But I also know this: when a man loves you, he gives—freely, not out of obligation or guilt, but because he wants to see you smile.
I gave my heart, my time, and my effort. All I wanted was reciprocity—not money, but effort. Not luxury, but presence. Care. Thoughtfulness. I’m scared that the moment I soften, he’ll go back to who he was. That the food deliveries and Momo alerts will stop once I walk through his door again.
So now I wonder: how do you love someone who had to lose you to learn how to treat you right?
And more importantly—how do you trust that the change is real?
