The first time Theo called me “wife material,” we were at his cousin’s wedding. I’d helped his elderly aunt find the restroom, made sure his mother always had a full glass of water, and remembered the names of all his extended family members. As we slow-danced under string lights, he pulled me close and whispered, “You’re such wife material, Wambui. I’m the luckiest man alive.”
I blushed, tucking the compliment away like a precious stone. Wife material. I’d never thought of myself that way before, as someone whose qualities could be neatly packaged into the perfect future spouse. But coming from Theo, it felt like the highest praise.
We’d been dating for eight months by then. We met at a mutual friend’s birthday party, where he’d asked for my number after we spent hours discussing our shared love of classic literature and conspiracy theories. Our relationship had progressed with a comfortable inevitability, weekend dates became weekday sleepovers, and became drawer space in each other’s apartments.
I fell in love with his thoughtfulness. Theo remembered the little things, how I liked my coffee, which true crime podcasts I followed, and the fact that I was allergic to lilies. He called his mother every Sunday and volunteered at a children’s hospital once a month. He was the kind of man my friends approved of immediately, the kind my father shook hands with firmly and remembered by name.
“Wife material” became a recurring theme. When I cooked his favourite meal, oxtail stew that took six hours to prepare, he’d kiss me and say, “Definitely wife material.” When I rubbed his shoulders after a long day at work or remembered to pick up his prescription, those words would appear again. I started to collect these moments, stringing them together like pearls on a necklace that I hoped would someday become an engagement ring.
A year and a half into our relationship, I moved into his apartment. My cookbooks found homes next to his engineering textbooks. My floral bedsheets replaced his plain navy ones. My life intertwined with his so completely that I couldn’t imagine a future where we weren’t together.
“You’re so good at making this place feel like a home,” he said one evening as we ate dinner at our newly purchased dining table. “Such wife material.”
By then, I’d started to wonder when the title would transform from adjective to noun, when “wife material” would simply become “wife.” I didn’t push, though. Theo was methodical, a planner. He was saving for a proper ring; he wanted his career to stabilise first, and he was waiting for the right moment. At least, that’s what I told myself.
Two years into our relationship, Theo went to London for a three-month work assignment. The distance was difficult, but manageable. We video called daily, and I flew out to visit him halfway through his stay. It was during this visit that he took me to Hampstead Heath at sunset and told me, “I want to spend my life with you. When I get back to Nairobi, we’ll start planning our future.”
Not quite a proposal, but close enough that I returned home and started browsing wedding venues online, just casually. Just to be prepared.
A week after Theo returned from London, something shifted. He became distant, distracted. He stayed late at work. Our conversation, once flowing like a river, became a trickle. When I asked if everything was okay, he assured me it was just readjustment, jet lag, and work stress.
I believed him, because I had no reason not to.
Until the day his phone lit up with a message while he was in the shower, and the preview showed a name, Laila, and the words “miss you too, last night was…”
The rest was cut off, but it was enough.
When I confronted him, Theo didn’t deny it. Laila was a colleague he’d met in London. They’d connected instantly. He hadn’t meant for anything to happen, but it had. Now he was confused.
“I love you, Wambui,” he said, his eyes pleading. “You know I do. You’re everything a man could want. You’re…”
“Wife material,” I finished bitterly. “Just not the woman you want to marry.”
We tried counselling. We took a break. We got back together with renewed promises and boundaries. But something had broken, and no amount of “wife material” compliments could repair it.
Six months later, Theo moved out. A year after that, a mutual friend mentioned casually that Theo was engaged. To Laila. Who had relocated to Nairobi to be with him.
I saw their wedding photos on Instagram, a beachfront ceremony in Diani, her in a flowing white dress, him in a tan suit. They looked happy. I wish I could say I felt nothing but warm wishes for them, but the truth was messier. I felt anger, confusion, and a peculiar kind of relief.
The questions that had haunted me were, Was I not good enough? What did she have that I lacked? Slowly, gave way to different questions: Was I trying to be what he wanted instead of who I was? Had I valued his validation over my desires?
The term “wife material” took on a different meaning. I realised it had always been less about me and more about Theo’s checklist of qualities he thought I should want. I was stable, nurturing, accommodating, textbook “wife material.” But chemistry, passion, and genuine compatibility can’t be reduced to a checklist.
I’ve expanded my catering business and bought my apartment. I’ve learned that I’m not material for anything or anyone. I’m not a resource to be evaluated for potential use. I’m a complete person with flaws and strengths, desires and boundaries.
Sometimes I wonder if Theo ever realises what he was saying all those times he called me “wife material”, when being “perfect” isn’t enough: Finding value beyond relationship labels, but couldn’t commit to making me his wife. Perhaps he genuinely believed I was perfect for the role, just not perfect for him. Or maybe “wife material” was his way of appreciating me without having to fully engage with me as an individual rather than an ideal.
Either way, I no longer aspire to be anyone’s “material.” I’m not a fabric waiting to be cut and sewn into someone else’s pattern. I’m already whole. Someday, if marriage is what I choose, it won’t be because I finally became worthy of the title “wife.” It will be because I found someone who sees me, all of me, and chooses me, not for what I can be to them, but for who I already am.
Check out:
We Met At Heaven’s Gate Prayer Retreat. The Chemistry Was Not Holy
My Boyfriend Tried To Turn Me Into Wife Material To Please His Family
I Thought She Was Wife Material But She Was Playing The Long Con
He Demanded That She Change Her Lifestyle To Fit His Idea Of An Ideal Potential Wife
I Ignored All The Red Flags And Married My Wife – Only For Her To Betray My Trust
Now You See Them, Now You Don’t—His Marriage Ended Unexpectedly
