My cousin called me one day and said, "Hey, how have you been?"

"Great, and you?" I replied.

It didn’t take long for the conversation to take an unexpected turn. One of her friends was looking for a wife, and she was trying to play matchmaker. Now, my cousin was significantly older than I was, so I figured if this guy was her friend, he’d probably be older, too. And since she lived abroad, it would have to be a long-distance thing. I shared my concerns, but she brushed them aside. "Don’t worry," she assured me. "You’ll like him."

She wasn’t wrong—I did like Nana. Despite the age gap, he was young at heart, and we clicked instantly. But I still had my reservations. "Nana, I can’t do the long-distance thing. You’re there, and I’m here. How is that going to work?"

"Oh, Naki, don’t worry about that," he said. "I’ll be returning to Ghana soon, and I plan on staying permanently. We can travel occasionally, but we’ll be based in Ghana."

I liked the sound of that arrangement, so I let myself fall for him. After a year of dating, he came to Ghana, and while he was here, we got married. I was the happiest girl alive. I thanked my cousin profusely and the universe for bringing us together.

But just three months into our marriage, he returned to the States. He told me there was something he had to take care of, promising he’d be back soon and that everything would be fine. But that promise was a lie. Three years passed, and he hadn’t returned. He would send me money, video call me, and assure me he was working on my paperwork so I could join him. I was alone, but he seemed to think money would fill the void he’d left behind.

I attended couples' events alone. While everyone else had their partners by their sides, I was always by myself. And every night, when others went to bed with their spouses, I went to bed alone.

After seven years, nothing had changed. I was still alone, my youth wasting away. One day, I was filling out a form and reached the part where I had to tick if I was married or single. That’s when it hit me. I was no different from a single woman—a single woman who happened to wear a ring. I was single but not allowed to date anyone. I was single with a man who would call me on video every once in a while. It took me seven years of marriage to realize I was married to a ghost.

I checked the "single" box on that form, took off my ring, and started hanging out with friends again. A few weeks later, he called, saying, "I hear you don’t wear your ring anymore. Why? As a married woman, why are you acting like you don’t have a husband?"

"I want a divorce," I replied.

He was stunned. He thought he’d bought my loyalty with money but didn’t realize my time was far too precious. He thought gifts would compensate for the years I’d lost waiting.

"Is it because of the distance?" he asked. "Don’t be upset; I’ll be home soon. Don’t make any rash decisions, please."

But I had already returned his dowry to his family to signify our traditional divorce. Within a month, he flew back to Ghana, desperate to calm things down, but his sudden presence only made me angrier.

"So you could come, after all," I said. "So now you remember that you have a wife? I’m sorry it had to come at a time when I don’t want this anymore. Now that you’re here, sign the papers."

I got a divorce, but I fell into a deep depression. I felt empty as if all my hopes had dried up. Then, one day, my brother asked what I wanted for my 33rd birthday.

"I want my wasted years back," I replied bitterly.

"Instead of wishing them back, why don’t you make the most of the years you have left?" he said. "33 isn’t even old. You’re not too old to start over."

He was right. I didn’t even look my age, and I was far from too old to begin again. Starting over was far better than being married to a ghost.