Patrick and I had been dating for two years. Every time I brought up moving in or getting engaged, he’d brush it off with the same excuse:
“We still don’t know each other well enough.”
So, I waited. Patiently.
Then last month, my aunt passed away and left me her fully paid three-bedroom apartment.
I told Patrick about it. That very night? He suddenly decided he did know me well enough — and dropped to one knee with a ring.
This was the same man who wasn’t “ready” just two weeks earlier.
I couldn’t shake the feeling: it wasn’t me he was saying yes to… it was the property.
But instead of confronting him, I played along.
I acted shocked, overjoyed. Threw on the happiest expression I could muster.
“Yes! I’d love to!”
He beamed. But I lifted a finger.
“Just one condition.”
“Anything, babe!” he said, all charm.
I looked him dead in the eyes. “We split everything 50/50. Rent, groceries, bills. No freeloading — even if the apartment’s paid off.”
His smile twitched. “Wait, but the place is free. What exactly would I be paying for?”
“Exactly,” I said. “If it’s real love, you’d want to contribute.”
He gave a weak smile. “Of course, yeah… fair enough.”
But over the next few weeks, as we “planned” the wedding, he never once mentioned rings, venues, or vows.
Instead, all he talked about were upgrades, renovations, and how we could flip the place for profit. He even suggested turning my late aunt’s office into his personal gym. His. Not ours.
So I tested him again.
I told him I was thinking of donating part of the inheritance to a domestic violence shelter my aunt had always supported. I said it was her wish.
Patrick’s face tightened like he’d eaten something sour.
“Donate? That money could go toward a new car, a honeymoon—our future.”
“She believed in helping women rebuild,” I said. “It feels like the right thing.”
He sighed. “Fine, just… don’t go overboard.”
So I did exactly that—on purpose.
I cut a $30,000 check to the shelter and asked them to send me a printed thank-you letter.
When it arrived, I left it in plain sight on the kitchen table.
That night, Patrick came home, saw the letter, and just froze.
“You donated how much?” he asked, scanning the page.
“Thirty grand,” I said calmly. “That’s what felt right.”