My ex-husband and I divorced when our son was seven. Now our son is fifteen, almost sixteen, and somehow we’ve gone from divorced and done to actually being pretty good friends. We don’t just talk for the sake of co-parenting. Sometimes we hang out because we want to. We laugh, text, share music, and get along better now than we ever did when we were married. It’s worked out better than I could have imagined.

Then he met someone new. They’ve been dating for a little while, but it’s starting to get serious. I’ve met her once or twice. My son spends more time around her than I do, and he likes her a lot. I should be happy for them, and I am, but hearing him talk about how fun she is and how happy she makes his dad left a sting I didn’t expect. I smiled and said all the right things, but inside I felt jealous, something I’m ashamed to admit.

She doesn’t like that my ex and I are still friends. She says it’s fine if we talk about our son, but the idea of us hanging out just because we enjoy each other’s company is off limits. I can tell he’s trying to respect her boundaries, which means pulling back from me. He doesn’t say it outright, but I can feel the distance. He’s trying to keep the peace with her, and it hurts more than I want to admit.

Months ago, we planned a trip for our son’s sixteenth birthday, just the three of us. It was supposed to be a shared adventure, something special to mark the milestone. We were going to see his favorite band in concert, something all three of us love. But then my son mentioned that his dad’s girlfriend was coming too, even though she doesn’t like the band. I found out from him, not from my ex, which made it worse.

I haven’t confronted him about it yet. I don’t know how to do that without sounding jealous or possessive. But I’m upset. It feels like a sacred space that used to belong to the three of us is slowly being taken over, and I can’t stop it without looking like the crazy ex who can’t let go. I’ve worked so hard to be mature, supportive, and steady through all of this. I didn’t expect to feel so jealous, and I don’t want to ruin the progress we’ve made, but it feels like I’m losing more than a friend.

At the beginning of June, I finally decided to ask him about the concert trip. I kept it neutral, asking if the girlfriend was coming so I could figure out the hotel situation. He admitted he hadn’t told me because he was hoping she’d back out. He said he didn’t want her to come, that she invited herself and made it clear she expected to be included. He didn’t think he could say no without damaging their relationship. Then he added, “You think I want to go on a trip with both of you?”

I suggested maybe I could give her my concert ticket or buy one for a different date on the tour so she wouldn’t have to stay behind. I didn’t want to, but I thought it was the adult thing to do. He immediately said there was no way I was giving her my ticket. “We’ve been planning this for almost a year,” he said. We did agree to cancel our shared hotel room and book separate ones.

I didn’t bring up that his girlfriend doesn’t like how close we are. I get it. Most people in a new relationship would feel uneasy about their partner being best friends with their ex. It’s uncomfortable, but I can understand it. What’s harder is realizing how much I still lean on him. We used to talk every day, not just about our son but about everything. He’s been my best friend for over twenty years, and before anyone says I sound like the obsessive ex, he’s said the same thing about me. I haven’t had another friendship like that. I have friends, but none that close.

He’s the person I’m most myself with, and I think that’s part of the problem. I don’t want him back romantically, but I still see him as mine in some way—not in a possessive way, just in that I never truly adjusted to him being someone with a completely separate life. He’s still a character in my story, not someone living his own.

I’ve been trying to get to know his girlfriend while also keeping my distance. I don’t want to be her friend, but I also don’t want tension. I went to his house recently to pick up our son’s dog, who’d spent the night there. She was home. We ended up in the backyard playing with the dogs, and he started teasing me about my favorite albums, asking me to list my top five. We went back and forth like we always do, debating music and joking. Then I noticed her face. She looked uncomfortable, like she was being left out.

I tried to steer the conversation toward something she could join, but I’m bad at small talk. I made an excuse to leave. That moment stuck with me—the way something so natural between us could make someone else feel like an outsider.

I’ve been trying to detach emotionally, but I never really did after our divorce. I thought I had, but I just replaced one kind of closeness with another. Now I’m trying to figure out how to undo that, how to build emotional space between us when we still have to talk all the time about our son.

He and I still text, but I’ve been cutting back. The problem is, he doesn’t. He keeps texting me—nothing inappropriate, just the same friendly, easy banter we’ve always had. It makes me feel guilty for pulling away, but I know it’s necessary.

Then, a few weeks ago, our son texted me from his dad’s house. “They’re streaming the Oasis reunion concert!” he said. Oasis has always been our thing—mine and my ex’s and now our son’s too. So I turned it on. The three of us were texting in our group chat, sending videos, cracking jokes, yelling about the set list. For a while, it felt like old times.

I got so caught up in it that I bought hundreds of dollars’ worth of merch for myself and my son. I didn’t even think about it. It just felt good. I didn’t buy anything for my ex, obviously—that would be crossing a line.

Apparently, while this was happening, his girlfriend had invited him to a Fourth of July party. He told her no because he wanted to stay home and watch the concert. She asked who he was texting. He didn’t answer. She grabbed his phone, saw my name, and threw it across the room before storming out.

I didn’t see it happen, but my son did, and he told me later. That’s what keeps echoing in my mind—not the phone, not her anger, but the fact that my son witnessed it. He’s the reason we’ve worked so hard to make this situation peaceful. He’s the reason we divorced in the first place—to stop fighting, to give him stability. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this.

Still, when I first heard about it, part of me felt a little thrill of satisfaction. I shouldn’t have. I know that. But after all the self-restraint and the pretending, hearing that she lost control because of me made me feel like I’d won something. I’m not proud of it. It faded as soon as I thought of my son.

I even considered reaching out to her to explain that nothing inappropriate was going on, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Maybe because deep down, there’s still a part of me that wants to win—but I don’t even know what winning means anymore.