Tyler proposed quietly on my balcony, greasy takeout and too much wine setting the scene. His shaking hands held out a ring, and I said yes before he finished. We dreamed of a small wedding—ramen bar, cosplay photo booth—just us, simple and perfect. Tyler was a freelance web developer; I made comics and loved anime. We didn’t need fancy.

Weeks later, it was time to meet his mom, Patricia. I’d heard she was intense, even asked his ex about her savings. Still, I stayed hopeful. Patricia greeted me warmly, complimented my hair, and served homemade lasagna. We laughed over manga and anime differences. I thought maybe I’d been wrong about her.

Then after dinner, Patricia pulled Tyler aside. When he returned, his face was pale. “My mom thinks this engagement’s a mistake,” he said. Patricia wanted him with someone “more mature,” with money, not someone who liked cartoons. Tyler said he agreed, and they called off the wedding.

I didn’t cry. Instead, I planned one last dinner—closure. Tyler came dressed nice, expecting tears, but I surprised him with chocolate mousse and a velvet box containing a tattoo voucher. “You always wanted one,” I said. He smiled, touched.

Days later, Tyler got inked with a huge tattoo: “Property of Patricia — Mama’s Boy For Life.” His shock was priceless. Calls and texts flooded me, but I ignored them. Tyler showed up furious, but I just shut the door.

Now, I’m with Devon, the tattoo artist, creating my own future—far better than I imagined.