Tyler proposed on my apartment balcony, over greasy takeout and cheap wine. It wasn’t flashy—just us, laughing, when he pulled out a ring with shaking hands. I said yes before he even finished asking.
We dove straight into wedding plans. We wanted something cozy and fun: a ramen bar, a cosplay photo booth, no big production—just pure, dorky joy.
He was a freelance web developer; I was a graphic designer and comic book nerd. We didn’t need anything fancy. Just each other.
Or so I thought.
A few weeks later, Tyler said it was time to meet his mom, Patricia. I’d heard stories—she was opinionated, intense, sometimes downright scary. She once asked an ex-girlfriend about her savings account during dinner.
Still, I stayed hopeful. I dressed up, brought wine, and braced myself.
Patricia welcomed me warmly. She complimented my hair, praised my manners, and actually laughed at my stories about anime conventions. I let myself relax. I thought, Maybe she’s not so bad after all.
Ha. Rookie mistake.
After dinner, Patricia asked Tyler for help with “something quick” in the bedroom. I thought nothing of it and started clearing dishes.
Ten minutes later, Tyler came back looking like he’d seen a ghost.
We stepped outside, and that’s when he dropped the bomb: Patricia didn’t approve. She thought I was too young, too broke, too “immature” because I liked cartoons. She wanted him to find someone richer. And—worst of all—he agreed.
He said we should call off the engagement.
I was shattered. But instead of breaking down, I smiled.
“If that’s what you want, that’s fine,” I said. “But can we have one last dinner? Just for closure?”
He agreed, thinking he was being mature and noble.
Poor guy.
I cried that night. But the next morning, I called my friend Devon—the best tattoo artist in town—and set my plan in motion.
A week later, Tyler showed up for our “farewell dinner” looking like he thought we might still get back together. We had pasta, wine, soft jazz. I even laughed at his stupid jokes.
For dessert, I handed him a small velvet box. Inside was a tattoo voucher—and a note: A little something to remember me by.
He looked touched. “Wow, you’re really mature about this,” he said.
I smiled. “Guess so.”
The next day, Tyler excitedly showed up at Devon’s shop. Devon, following my instructions, didn’t let him see the tattoo until it was finished.
It wasn’t the inspirational quote Tyler had been dreaming about.
When Devon sent me the photo, I posted it on my Instagram. No tags needed—word got around fast.
In big, bold script across Tyler’s back:
Property of Patricia — Mama’s Boy For Life.
By morning, my phone exploded with furious calls and messages from Tyler and his mother. I ignored them.
Tyler even showed up at my apartment, yelling about how I “ruined his life.” I calmly reminded him that I wasn’t “mature” enough for him—and closed the door in his face.
Patricia tried coming by once, too. I didn’t even bother answering.
Last I heard, Tyler moved back in with her. His freelance work dried up. He’s still getting laser treatments to remove the tattoo, but apparently, you can still faintly read it.
Meanwhile? I’m dating Devon now. Turns out, teaming up for a little revenge makes for great chemistry.
Patricia was right about one thing: I wasn’t built for the future she imagined.
I built a much better one instead.