Tyler had just proposed. It wasn’t anything grand—just the two of us on my balcony, greasy takeout on the table, and way too much wine. Then suddenly, there he was, holding out a ring with shaky hands and the biggest smile I’d ever seen. Before he could even finish his sentence, I blurted out, “Yes!”
We started planning the wedding right away. Nothing fancy, just a small, fun gathering with a ramen bar and a cosplay-themed photo booth. It was perfect—just like us.
He was a freelance web developer. I was a graphic designer who made comics for indie publishers. We didn’t need a big wedding or matching groomsmen. We just needed each other. Or so I thought.
A couple of weeks into our engagement, Tyler finally said it was time to meet his mom. Patricia. He’d been putting it off, and honestly, I hadn’t pushed for it either. I’d heard things about her—how she was opinionated, how she meant well but could be intense. His sister once mentioned that Patricia drove away his last girlfriend by bluntly asking about her savings account.
Still, I believed in first impressions. So, I put on my nicest outfit, fixed my hair, grabbed a bottle of Pinot Noir, and headed over with the most positive attitude I could muster.
Patricia greeted me with open arms and a big smile. “Oh, Charlotte! You’re even more lovely than the photos,” she gushed. Then, to my surprise, she reached out and touched my hair. “So shiny! What do you use?”
I blinked. “Uh… dandruff shampoo?”
She laughed like I had said something brilliant. As she led me inside, I started to think maybe everyone had misjudged her.
Dinner was homemade lasagna—no frozen nonsense. She offered me seconds, poured the wine I brought, and even asked about my work. I told her about my latest comic convention and how some guy kept calling me Sailor Moon. She laughed, actually listened.
For the first time that night, I relaxed.
Then dessert came.
“Tyler, honey, could you help me with something in the bedroom?” Patricia asked sweetly.
I frowned. “Do you need help moving something?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh no, just a little thing. Won’t take a minute.”
I shrugged and started cleaning up while they were gone, humming to myself like a fool. Ten minutes later, Tyler walked out looking like he had seen a ghost. His face was pale, his eyes wide.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He motioned for me to follow him outside. Once on the back porch, he sighed heavily.
“Charlotte… my mom thinks this engagement is a mistake.”
I felt my stomach drop. “What?”
“She says I need someone… different. Someone with money, who can bring more to the table so I don’t have to work so hard.”
I stared at him.
“She says you’re pretty but not ‘future material.’ That you’re not mature enough because you like cartoons.” He rubbed his neck awkwardly. “And honestly… I’ve been thinking the same thing. I think… we should call it off.”
I felt my heart pounding in my ears.
The same man who had proposed to me two weeks ago was now parroting his mommy’s nonsense like it was gospel.
I know what you’re thinking—I should have walked away and never looked back.
But I had one last move.
I smiled.
“If that’s what you want, then that’s fine,” I said softly. “But… can we have one last dinner together? A proper goodbye. Just us.”
He blinked. “Like, closure?”
“Exactly.”
He hesitated, but then nodded. “Yeah. Sure. That sounds… mature.”
“Okay. I’ll call you in a few days to set it up.”
“Sure!”
Idiot.
The next morning, I called Devon, a tattoo artist and one of my best friends. When I told him my idea, he didn’t even hesitate. “Oh, hell yeah. Let’s mess this dude up—emotionally, I mean.”
A week later, Tyler arrived at my apartment wearing cologne and his best shirt, like this was some kind of date. I played my part, welcoming him in with pasta, wine, and soft jazz in the background.
After dinner, I placed a small velvet box in front of him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Just a gift so you never forget me.”
He opened it to find a card and a tattoo voucher.
“A tattoo?”
“You always talked about getting one,” I said, sipping my wine. “A meaningful phrase on your back, remember?”
He looked touched. “That’s… wow, Char. That’s really… mature of you.”
I smirked. “And you said I wasn’t mature enough.”
He laughed. “Guess I was wrong.”
The next day, Tyler showed up at Devon’s shop, grinning like an idiot. He was excited to finally do something for himself. Devon told him the design was meaningful, a tribute, but that I’d insisted he not reveal anything until it was done.
Tyler didn’t even ask to see the stencil.
Hours later, he left the shop with a fresh tattoo wrapped in plastic. He couldn’t fully see it in the mirror, but he was too thrilled to care.
Then Devon texted me a photo.
The tattoo, in big, elegant cursive, read: Property of Patricia — Mama’s Boy for Life.
I posted it on Instagram that night. Didn’t tag him, but it was only a matter of time.
By morning, my phone was blowing up. Voicemails from Tyler and his raging mother. I deleted them all. Friends flooded my inbox, laughing.
Tyler showed up at my apartment that afternoon, pounding on the door. “You tricked me!” he yelled. “That’s permanent! You’re insane!”
I opened the door, met his furious eyes, and smiled. “Nah. I’m just ‘not future material,’ remember?”
He sputtered, but I shut the door in his face.
Patricia came once too. I didn’t even open the door.
Six months later, I heard that Tyler had to move back in with her after his freelance work dried up. Apparently, he was getting laser removal, but the tattoo was still faintly there.
He’s still single. His dating profile now says: “Looking for someone who respects family values.”
And me?
I’m dating Devon now. Turns out, helping a girl plan revenge really sparks chemistry. He calls me his muse.
Patricia was right about one thing—I wasn’t built for that future.
I designed a better one.
