Tyler ended our engagement after his controlling mother, Patricia, decided I wasn’t “future material.” Instead of falling apart, I invited him to a final dinner—our supposed “closure.” I cooked, smiled, and gave him a farewell gift: a tattoo voucher.
He showed up, smug and cologned, expecting tears. Instead, he left happy, unaware the tattoo read: “Property of Patricia — Mama’s Boy For Life.”
He discovered the truth too late. Voicemails and door knocks followed, but I never responded.
Months later, he moved back in with Patricia, unemployed and mid-laser-removal.
Meanwhile, I moved on—with Devon, the tattoo artist who helped me execute the plan. We’re dating now. He calls me his muse, and we bond over comics, tattoos, and delicious revenge.
Patricia was right about one thing: I wasn’t made for that future.
I made a better one.
