Tyler had just proposed — nothing fancy, just us on my balcony, greasy takeout boxes between us, a bottle of wine, and him pulling out a ring with shaky hands and a huge grin. I said yes before he could even finish asking.
We jumped right into wedding planning — something small, casual, perfect for who we were. Ramen bar. Cosplay photo booth. No huge expenses, no stress.
He was a freelance web developer. I designed comics for indie publishers and spent more time drawing anime than being a “proper adult.” We didn’t need big money to be happy — we just needed each other.
Or so I thought.
A few weeks after the proposal, Tyler said it was time I met his mother, Patricia — the one he’d conveniently been avoiding. From what little I knew, Patricia was blunt and judgmental. She’d apparently chased off his last girlfriend by interrogating her about her bank account.
Still, I went in with an open mind. Dressed up, brought wine, put my best foot forward.
At first, Patricia seemed sweet. Too sweet. Compliments, jokes, lots of smiling. By dessert, I actually thought maybe I’d been wrong about her.
I should have trusted my gut.
After dinner, she asked Tyler to help her with something “quick” in the bedroom. I didn’t think anything of it. Stayed behind washing dishes, even humming a little.
Ten minutes later, Tyler stumbled out looking like he’d seen a ghost.
He asked me to follow him onto the porch, and there he dropped the bomb:
“Charlotte, my mom thinks we’re making a mistake. She says I should marry someone older, richer — someone who can make life easier. And honestly… I’ve been thinking the same thing. We should call it off.”
My heart shattered on the spot.
Now, most people would’ve walked away right then. But not me.
I smiled and said, “If that’s what you want, okay. But can we have one last dinner together? A real goodbye? At my place.”
He hesitated, then agreed. “Sure. Closure sounds good.”
Perfect.
Over the next few days, I put my plan into action. I called my friend Devon, a local tattoo artist — and someone who had always had my back.
When I explained what I wanted, he immediately said, “Let’s do it. Let’s ruin this dude — tastefully.”
The night of our “farewell dinner,” Tyler showed up dressed like it was a date. He even wore cologne. Like he thought I’d fall into his arms crying and begging him to come back.
We ate, we laughed, we had wine. I gave him a small velvet box as a parting gift.
He opened it to find a tattoo voucher, with a little note:
“Something to remember me by.”
He was touched. Thought it was the most “mature” thing ever.
The next day, he eagerly showed up at Devon’s shop.
Devon told him the design was “meaningful,” something special I’d picked — but that he couldn’t see it until it was done.
Tyler, in all his genius, agreed without question.
Hours later, Tyler walked out with a brand new tattoo across his back, beautifully inked in big, elegant letters:
“Property of Patricia — Mama’s Boy For Life.”
When he found out — after someone sent him a photo I’d posted on Instagram (without tagging him, of course) — he went ballistic.
My phone blew up with calls and messages from both him and his mother.
I didn’t listen. I didn’t answer. I didn’t care.
He even showed up at my apartment yelling that I’d “ruined his life.”
I opened the door just long enough to say:
“Sorry — guess I just wasn’t ‘future material,’ right?”
And then I closed it in his face.
Later, I heard through the grapevine that Tyler had to move back in with Mommy. His freelance gigs dried up, and even after painful (and expensive) laser removal treatments, the tattoo still faintly lingers.
Meanwhile?
I’m dating Devon now. Turns out, helping plan a little revenge dinner makes for an amazing love story.
Patricia was right about one thing:
I wasn’t built for the future she wanted for her son.
I built a better one for myself.