A letter to My Ex/The Star IllustrationEvery heartbreak has a story. “Letter to My Ex” invites you into the reflective hearts of people who’ve loved, lost, and grown—offering gentle truths, bold lessons, and encouragement for anyone navigating the aftermath of a relationship. These weekly letters are full of grace and grit, showing how endings shape wisdom and how the past still holds power to teach. From understanding closure to embracing self-love, each piece is a tribute to growth through love, loss, and lived experience.
Hellen, a journalist, pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Ex.
I met Arnold in high school, Form Three, during a school event, what we used to call a funkie. That day, we shared so much laughter and stories, and for a brief moment, the world felt lighter. Then, just as quickly, life swept us apart, and we lost contact.
Three years later, fate, or perhaps persistence, brought us back together. I had delayed joining university after high school, so by the time I finally enrolled as a first-year student, he was already in his third year.
Our reunion wasn’t by chance. He had looked me up online, sent a message, and from there, the spark rekindled.
Arnold was gentle, loving, and kind. He loved me in a way that made me believe I had found my forever. We shared everything: dreams, laughter, and little moments that felt like home. Two years into our relationship, I became pregnant with our first child.
When we broke the news to his mother, she wasn’t pleased. Arnold panicked. He asked me to terminate the pregnancy, but I couldn’t, I wouldn’t. That moment broke us apart. Carrying a child who was already being rejected was the hardest thing I’d ever faced, but I chose to stand firm.
Eventually, Arnold came around. He cut ties with his mother, and we reunited.
For a while, it felt like we had weathered the storm together. But seven months after our baby was born, tragedy struck, his mother passed away. That loss changed him completely.
He began spending nights out, going to clubs, and slowly slipping away from the man I knew. Later, I learned that guilt haunted him; his mother had wanted him to marry within their tribe. Perhaps that guilt drove him into the arms of another woman, one who fit the mould his late mother had imagined.
And how did I find out? I’m a journalist. We dig, we connect dots, we read between the lines, and that’s how I discovered he was seeing someone else.
The truth broke me. I cried until my heart felt numb. Though he continued to provide for me and our child, the emotional distance between us grew unbearable.
Still, I pleaded with him. I wanted our family to survive. I reminded him of love, of responsibility, of the dreams we once shared. I believe, deep down, he loved me, but he was lost in guilt, grief, and confusion.
His behaviour hurt me more emotionally than financially. I was working; I could sustain myself. But no amount of strength can prepare you for emotional neglect. Eventually, I stopped trying. The man I once knew was slipping away, and I had no power to stop it.
Then, one day, the unthinkable happened. After squandering his money and drowning in despair, Arnold took his own life.
I remember that call, the trembling voice on the other end, the rush to the scene, the numbness that followed. I was shattered. That day, I lost not just a partner, but a piece of myself.
Days later, I found out I was two weeks pregnant with our second child.
Life hasn’t been the same since. But my children, our children, keep me going. They are my reason to smile, even when memories sting.
I miss you, Arnold. Every day. When I pass places we once visited, I feel your presence. When I look at our son, I see your reflection; your “copyright,” as I like to say.
There are days I wish you were still here, to help make decisions about the kids, to share the burden of parenting and the joy of watching them grow.
On Friday, October 10, we’ll mark your third death anniversary. I still don’t know how to feel about it; whether to mourn, celebrate, or simply remember.
Rest well, Arnold.
The kids and I are still pushing — one day at a time.
Hellen.
(Names have been changed to protect privacy.)
Everyone has a story about love, loss, or heartbreak worth sharing. If you’ve ever wanted to say the things you couldn’t—apologies, closure, gratitude, or truths—to someone from your past, we invite you to write to us. Your real, heartfelt letter might offer healing or understanding to someone else who has been through something similar. You may remain anonymous if you prefer, but your words matter. We don’t pay contributors, but we believe in the power of shared experiences and emotional honesty. Join us in creating a collection of letters that explore love, lessons, and letting go. Be part of this movement.
