I was seventeen when my father told me I was getting married. He said it plainly, like it was a business transaction. And in a way, it was. The groom was a wealthy businessman from Dubai. Older. Already married. Foreign. I didn’t even know his full name until a few days later.
I was still a child.
We were living in Riyadh at the time, and because of the guardian system, my father had the legal authority to make decisions about my future. I didn’t fight it. Not because I agreed, but because there was no space to disagree. I begged him to wait. I told him I wasn’t ready. But once the arrangements were in motion, there was no reversing course.
The first time I cried for real was when I learned I would be his second wife. The idea of sharing a husband with another woman felt like a sharp betrayal, even though I barely knew him. I wasn’t naive about polygamy—it wasn’t completely uncommon in our circles—but I had always assumed that if it ever touched my life, it would be far off, and far more theoretical. I imagined falling in love, maybe. I imagined being someone’s only choice.
I didn’t imagine this.
When I moved to Dubai, everything changed. New country. New home. New expectations. I met my husband briefly before the wedding. Just once. He was polite, composed, maybe even kind in a distant sort of way. He treated the marriage like a formal obligation—something to be managed, not cherished.
After the wedding, I was moved into an apartment of my own. Not with him. Not with his other wife. Separate, compartmentalized. We were all pieces in different boxes, called forward when needed.
His first wife and I became close. She was older, more experienced, and surprisingly warm toward me. We were both living inside the same system, both trying to survive the same emotional contradictions. I came to see her as a sister, not a rival. I don’t know how I would have coped without her.
Then came the third wife. She was only sixteen. Younger than I was when I was married. The dynamic shifted overnight. He spent more time with her. She flaunted it. And while part of me ached with jealousy, another part of me felt a strange pity for her. She was still so angry, so reactive. She used her status as the “favorite” to push us aside, to punish us when she felt slighted. She wielded her proximity to him like a weapon. And sometimes, it worked. If she complained about us—about something we did or didn’t do—he would scold us. Occasionally, even strike us. Nothing brutal. Just symbolic. But still, it stung.
I’ve grown used to sharing my life with a man who is only partially mine. He spends one or two nights a week with me. The rest, he divides between his other wives or devotes to business. We rarely eat together except for Fridays, when the whole family gathers in a kind of ceremonial meal. It’s not unhappy, exactly—but it is hollow in a way I don’t always have words for.
I have a daughter now. She’s the light of my life. Her smile has made all of this—almost—bearable. I was allowed to have her after pleading with my husband for months. The decision wasn’t mine. Like so many things, it was his to grant or deny. I didn’t have much choice in that, either.
I can’t work. My husband doesn’t allow it. He says I have everything I need, and in many ways, he’s right. I have a home. Food. An allowance. I spend what little free money I have on painting supplies and ingredients for cooking. I find small joys in these things. Art, especially, gives me a sense of self again. Something that is mine and no one else’s.
I still read. I still learn. I had an excellent education growing up—my family believed in that, even for girls—and I try to hold onto that part of myself. But I never got to finish school. Marriage took that away.
Do I love my husband? I’m not sure anymore. In the early days, I thought I did. But looking back, I think I was trying to convince myself. I’ve grown to care for him. I respect him. I’m thankful he doesn’t mistreat me. But love? That feels like something else. Something more mutual. Something chosen.
If I could leave, would I? Maybe. But where would I go? I’m a divorced woman with a child. In this culture, that’s not a position of freedom. It’s a sentence. There’s no safety net, no do-over. So I stay. I endure.
Sometimes I fantasize about a different life for my daughter. One where she chooses who she marries. One where she works, and travels, and loves fully. One where she doesn’t have to ask permission to exist.
People ask me if I’m happy. I tell them this: I’m not unhappy. I have moments of peace, moments of joy. But I also have a quiet sadness that never fully leaves. I don’t regret my daughter. I don’t even regret surviving. But I do regret not being asked.
No one asked me what I wanted.
And that’s what it means, sometimes, to be a wife in a plural marriage.