He actually listened to her. Ended our engagement because she decided I wasn’t “wife material.” So I smiled, nodded, and told him I understood — but asked if we could share one last meal. For closure.
He agreed, clueless.
Not long before that, Tyler had proposed. It was quiet, spontaneous. We were on my balcony eating greasy takeout, tipsy on cheap wine. He pulled out a ring with shaking hands and a goofy grin. I didn’t hesitate.
We planned a quirky, low-key wedding — cosplay photo booth, ramen bar, the works. He freelanced building websites. I designed comics. We didn’t need glitz. Just each other.
Or so I thought.
A few weeks in, he said it was time to meet his mom, Patricia. I’d heard about her — blunt, intense, kind of well-meaning. She once asked a girl Tyler dated for her bank statement.
Still, I believed in first impressions. So I dressed nicely, brought wine, and headed to her pristine, colonial-style home.
She greeted me like a proud hostess. Gushed over my hair. Complimented my outfit. Served amazing homemade lasagna. She even laughed at my story about being chased around a comic con in costume. Listened while I explained the difference between manga and anime.
I started to relax. Maybe she wasn’t so bad.
Then, after dinner, she asked Tyler to help her with something in the bedroom. I stayed behind, cleaning and humming, feeling hopeful.
Ten minutes later, Tyler returned pale. “My mom thinks this engagement is a mistake,” he said on the back porch. “She says you’re not serious enough… not mature. Honestly, I’ve been wondering the same thing.”
Then he said it: “We should call it off.”
I stood there stunned. This man who’d asked me to be his wife was now echoing his mother’s insults like gospel.
I could’ve walked away.
Instead, I smiled.
“If that’s what you want, okay. But could we have one last dinner? At my place. For closure.”
He agreed. Fool.
I went home, cried once. Then I called Devon — my friend, an incredible tattoo artist, and fellow comic nerd. He didn’t even blink.
“Oh hell yes,” he said. “Let’s emotionally wreck this guy.”
One week later, Tyler showed up at my door in cologne and his best shirt. Acting like I’d beg him to stay.
We had wine, spaghetti, soft jazz. I even laughed at one of his jokes.
Then I served dessert — chocolate mousse — and slid a small velvet box his way.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A little something to remember me by.”
He opened it. Inside was a card and a coupon.
“A tattoo?” he said, blinking.
“You always said you wanted one. Something meaningful.”
He looked touched. “That’s… really mature of you.”
I just smiled. “Guess I’m growing up.”
The next day, he showed up at Devon’s shop, cheerful, talking about how “healthy” our goodbye had been. Devon, as instructed, said nothing about the design. Just inked it.
Tyler left smiling, wrapped in plastic.
Then I got the photo.
I posted it on Instagram. Didn’t tag him. I didn’t need to.
The tattoo said:
“Property of Patricia — Mama’s Boy for Life”
Elegant, black cursive. Huge.
By morning, my phone was flooded with calls and messages — Tyler, his furious mother, everyone.
I didn’t listen to a single one.
Tyler showed up later, screaming that I’d tricked him. “It’s permanent!”
I opened the door calmly. “You said I wasn’t mature enough. Guess you were wrong.”
Then I shut it in his face.
Patricia came by once too. I didn’t open the door.
Last I heard, Tyler lost some freelance gigs and moved back in with Mommy. The tattoo? Still faintly visible, even after several laser sessions. He’s still single. His dating profile says: “Looking for someone who values family.”
And me?
I’m with Devon now. Turns out revenge sparks real chemistry.
He calls me his muse. I draw. He inks.
Patricia was right about one thing:
That wasn’t the future meant for me.
I built a better one.