Tyler’s mother thought I wasn’t good enough for her son. And the worst part? He actually listened to her. Just like that, he called off our wedding. No arguments, no fight for our love—just his mother’s words, and he folded.
So, for our last dinner together, I decided to give them both a goodbye present they’d never forget.
Tyler’s proposal hadn’t been anything grand, and that was what I loved about it. Just him and me, sitting on my balcony, greasy takeout between us, too much wine warming our cheeks, and then—there he was. Holding out a ring, his hands shaking, his smile stretching wide, hopeful.
I didn’t even think twice. I said yes before he could finish his sentence.
We started planning the wedding right away. Something small, something that fit us. A ramen bar, a cosplay-themed photo booth—our little dream wedding, just the way we wanted it.
He was a freelance web developer. I was a graphic designer who spent half my life drawing anime characters for indie comics. We weren’t traditional, we weren’t high-class, but we were happy.
Or at least, I thought we were.
A couple of weeks into our engagement, Tyler finally said it was time to meet his mother, Patricia. He had been putting it off, and I hadn’t exactly rushed to make it happen either.
I’d heard stories. Apparently, Patricia was “opinionated”—which, as everyone knows, is the polite way of saying she was judgmental as hell. Tyler’s sister once told me she had chased away his last girlfriend by straight-up demanding to see her savings account over dinner.
Still, I wanted to make a good first impression. I picked out a nice dress, fixed my hair, grabbed a bottle of Pinot Noir, and drove to her house with a positive attitude. I kept repeating to myself, It’s just dinner. You got this.
Patricia lived in one of those fancy neighborhoods where all the houses looked straight out of a magazine, their lawns so perfectly trimmed it looked like someone cut them with scissors.
She opened the door with a big smile, arms wide, as if she’d been waiting to prove the rumors wrong.
“Oh, Charlotte! You’re even more lovely than in the photos!” she gushed. She actually touched my hair—ran her fingers through it like I was a doll. “So shiny! What do you use?”
“Uh… dandruff shampoo?” I answered, completely thrown off.
She laughed like I’d just cracked the funniest joke in the world, then ushered me inside. Maybe, I thought, everyone had misjudged her.
Dinner was nice. She made real lasagna, not the frozen kind, and poured wine like we were old friends. She asked about my work, and I told her about the comic convention I had just been to.
“I dressed as my favorite manga character,” I said, “and some guy kept following me, yelling ‘Sailor Moon!’ at me.”
Patricia raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “Sailor… Moon?”
I spent a good five minutes explaining manga and anime to her, and to my surprise, she actually listened. Even laughed at my stories.
By dessert, I had started to relax. I thought, Maybe she isn’t so bad after all.
Then she turned to Tyler, her voice sweet as syrup. “Honey, could you help me with something quick in the bedroom?”
I blinked. “Do you need help moving something?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh no, just a little thing. Won’t take a minute.”
I nodded and started clearing the dishes, humming to myself. This is going well, I thought.
Ten minutes later, Tyler walked out of the bedroom looking like he’d seen a ghost. His face was pale, his hands clenched into fists.
“Everything okay?” I asked, drying my hands with a dish towel.
He nodded toward the back porch. “Can we talk outside?”
I followed him, the cool night air biting my skin. Tyler let out a deep sigh before turning to me.
“Charlotte… my mom thinks this engagement is a mistake.”
The words felt like a slap.
“Wait, what?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He looked down. “She says I need someone… different. Someone with more money. Someone who can bring more to the table, so I don’t have to work as hard.”
My heart pounded. “Tyler… are you seriously listening to this?”
He hesitated. “She thinks you’re not mature enough because you like cartoons. And… honestly? I’ve been thinking the same thing. I think we should call it off.”
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for him to laugh and say he was joking. But he wasn’t.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. I should have walked out and never looked back.
But I had a better idea.
I took a slow breath and smiled. “If that’s what you want, that’s fine. But… can we have one last dinner together? A proper goodbye. At my place. Just us.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Like… closure?”
“Exactly. Closure.”
He hesitated, but then nodded. “Yeah… okay. That sounds mature.”
Idiot.
The night of our “closure dinner,” Tyler showed up looking polished, like this was some kind of date. I welcomed him in, served pasta, poured wine, and even laughed at one of his jokes. He was getting comfortable. He thought I was heartbroken, trying to savor the last moments with him.
“I made chocolate mousse,” I said after dinner.
His face lit up. “Seriously? You’re going all out for a goodbye dinner?”
“Of course.” I set two bowls on the table. Then, I placed a small velvet box next to his.
He frowned. “What’s this?”
“A little gift,” I said smoothly. “So you’ll always remember me.”
Curious, he opened the box. Inside was a tattoo voucher with a note: A little something to remember me by.
His jaw dropped. “A tattoo?”
I smiled sweetly. “You always talked about getting one, remember? A meaningful phrase on your back?”
He looked touched. “That’s… really thoughtful, Charlotte. Wow.”
The next day, he went to get the tattoo. My best friend, Devon, inked it himself. And Tyler, the idiot, didn’t even check the stencil.
Hours later, Devon sent me a picture.
Across Tyler’s back, in elegant black script, were the words:
Property of Patricia — Mama’s Boy For Life.
By morning, my phone exploded with voicemails from Tyler and his furious mother. I deleted them without listening.
Tyler showed up at my apartment, pounding on my door. “You tricked me! That’s permanent! You’re insane!”
I opened the door and smiled. “Nah. I’m just not ‘future material,’ remember?”
I shut the door in his face.
Six months later, Tyler had moved back in with Patricia. His freelance work dried up. He was still single, still getting laser removal treatments, but the tattoo wouldn’t fade completely.
Meanwhile, I was dating Devon. Turns out, planning revenge really builds chemistry.
Patricia was right about one thing. I wasn’t built for that future.
But I sure as hell designed a better one.
