Our relationship took a nosedive when Adwoa started her food business; she no longer had time for me—it was her and her business against the world. Whenever she received an order, she would leave immediately, even if it was midnight, as long as she had received payment. My job wasn’t too demanding, so I began to feel increasingly alone.

"Adwoa, you are not making enough time for me; this is affecting our relationship. Can't you limit the way you involve yourself in this food business?" I asked. She replied, "I don't like being broke, and you barely have any money to give me, so don’t complain. This is what pays my bills." I didn’t like her response, and if anything changed after that conversation, it was that she became even more engrossed in her job, leaving me feeling lonelier than ever.

I had had enough, so I started entertaining another woman, Mavis. Mavis was everything I wanted in a partner, so I gave up on Adwoa. She noticed the change and began asking questions, "Quansah, are you cheating on me? You barely call anymore," she asked. That was my moment to confront her. "You’ve neglected this whole relationship, and you don’t want me to cheat? I’m even breaking up with you; I don’t see the point of this relationship." And that was how things ended between Adwoa and me.

Mavis and I started off smoothly, but then the problems began to surface. She didn’t believe in contributing her share to anything and thought that I should provide for everything. "You are the man; why don’t you have money?" she would say. Had it not been for her, I wouldn’t have realized that being a man came with the expectation of financial stability. I often wondered where they shared that money because I certainly didn’t receive mine.

When I could no longer provide for her, she started comparing me to her friends' boyfriends. She would post on social media about how "broke men didn’t deserve love," and her friends would laugh. It felt as though she expected to be treated like a trophy—displayed and bragged about—without contributing anything herself. One time, she wanted to eat at this newly opened spot. It wasn’t too expensive, but I didn't have the money. Not wanting to be labeled as broke, I borrowed money from my mother and took her there.

To my surprise, the owner was Adwoa, who was managing the place. She was happy to see us, greeted Mavis warmly, and offered us a VIP seat. The food was good, but all I could taste was regret. My ex was working hard, and instead of supporting her, I had just walked away.

"Is everything okay?" Mavis asked. I shook my head—no, nothing was okay; I felt like I had sold my colored TV for a black-and-white one. "I want to break up after this," I said. She looked confused and apologetic, but I had made up my mind, and I wasn't changing it. I may not get Adwoa back, but I definitely didn’t want to be with Mavis anymore.