Margaret, Ethan’s mom, thought I wasn’t good enough for her son. He bought her words and called off our wedding, breaking my heart. So, for our last dinner together, I decided to give them a goodbye gift they’d never forget.
Ethan proposed on my balcony, just us, with greasy takeout and too much wine. His hands shook as he held out a ring, his smile so wide it melted me. I said “Yes!” before he could finish, my heart bursting.
We started planning a small wedding—low-key, with a ramen bar and a cosplay photo booth. It was perfect for us.
Ethan was a freelance web developer. I was a graphic designer, drawing comics for small publishers and obsessing over anime scenes. We didn’t need a fancy venue or matching groomsmen. We just needed each other.
Or so I thought.
A couple of weeks into our engagement, Ethan said it was time to meet Margaret. He’d been avoiding it, and I hadn’t pushed. His sister had warned me Margaret was opinionated—she’d scared off his last girlfriend by asking straight-up about her savings.
Still, I believed in first impressions. I put on nice clothes, fixed my hair, grabbed a bottle of Pinot noir, and drove to her place, trying to stay positive.
Her house was big, colonial-style, in a neighborhood where the lawns looked trimmed with nail clippers. I parked behind Ethan’s car—we drove separately since we planned to move in together after the wedding—smoothed my skirt, and walked to the door, repeating, “It’s just dinner, Lily. You got this.”
Margaret greeted me like she wanted to prove the rumors wrong, all smiles and compliments. “Oh, Lily! You’re even prettier than the photos!” She touched my hair—actually touched it—and said, “So shiny! What do you use?”
“Uh… dandruff shampoo?” I said, awkward. She laughed like I’d cracked a joke. I started thinking maybe everyone had misjudged her.
Dinner was lasagna, the real deal, not frozen. She offered me seconds, poured my wine happily, and asked about my work. I told her about a comic convention where I dressed as my favorite manga character, and some guy followed me, shouting “Sailor Moon!”
I had to explain manga versus anime to her and Ethan, but Margaret laughed and seemed to listen. I was surprised, even relieved. By dessert, I let my guard down. Big mistake.
After we ate, Margaret turned to Ethan, all sweet. “Honey, can you help me with something quick in the bedroom?”
I blinked. “Need help moving something?”
“Oh, no, just a little thing,” she said, waving her hand.
I nodded, not thinking much of it, and started clearing dishes. I was humming, even smiling like an idiot.
Ten minutes later, Ethan came out looking like he’d seen a ghost, eyes wide, face pale. “You okay?” I asked, drying my hands on a dish towel.
He nodded toward the back porch. I followed, my stomach twisting. Outside, he sighed heavily and said, “Lily… my mom thinks this engagement’s a mistake.”
I flinched. “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.”
My heart pounded in my ears.
He kept going. “She says you’re pretty, but not ‘future material’ or mature enough ‘cause you like cartoons. And… I’ve been thinking the same. I think we should call it off.”
My throat closed up. I couldn’t speak. I just stared, heart cracking, wondering how the man who proposed weeks ago was now spitting his mom’s nonsense like it was truth.
I could’ve walked away, never looked back. But I had one last move.
I forced a smile, voice soft. “If that’s what you want, fine. But… can we have one last dinner together? At my place. Just us.”
He blinked. “Like, closure?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Closure.”
He hesitated, like he sensed something in my tone. But then he nodded. “Yeah, sure. That sounds… mature.”
“I’ll call you in a few days,” I said.
“Sure,” he said, almost relieved.
Idiot.
I left that night with a big smile for Margaret, thanking her like nothing was wrong. I cried a little when I got home, my chest aching. But the next morning, I started my plan.
I didn’t cry again. I didn’t vent to friends or toss Ethan’s stuff. I focused and called Caleb, a popular tattoo artist in town. We’d bonded over comics, and he’d done several of my tattoos.
I told him my idea. He didn’t flinch. “Hell yeah, Lily. Let’s mess with him—just emotionally, you know?”
Our dinner happened a week later. Ethan showed up in cologne and a nice shirt, giving me a half-smile like he thought I’d beg him to stay. I welcomed him in, hiding my hurt. We ate pasta, drank wine, soft jazz playing. I laughed at his dumb joke, watching him relax.
After dinner, I set out chocolate mousse. His eyes lit up. “You’re going all out for a goodbye dinner.”
“Of course,” I said, placing a small velvet box by his plate.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A gift,” I said, sipping wine. “So you never forget me.”
He opened it. Inside was a card: A little something to remember me by. And a tattoo voucher.
“A tattoo?”
“You always talked about getting one,” I said. “A meaningful phrase on your back, right?”
He looked touched. “Wow, Lily. That’s… really big of you.”
I smirked. “You said I wasn’t mature enough.”
He laughed. “Guess I was wrong.”
I smiled back. “Guess so.”
We kept talking. I said Caleb was doing it as a favor, and since Ethan knew him, he got excited. We said goodbye like we’d see each other again.
The next day, Ethan went to Caleb’s shop. Caleb told me he was giddy, saying our breakup was “refreshing.” Caleb said the tattoo was special, a design that’d “leave an impression,” but I’d told him not to show it until it was done.
Ethan didn’t even ask to see the sketch.
Hours later, he left with a fresh tattoo on his back, wrapped in plastic. Caleb said he was smiling, clueless. Caleb texted me the photo, and I posted it on Instagram, no tag, knowing he’d see it.
In big, black cursive, it read: Property of Margaret — Mama’s Boy For Life.
By morning, my phone blew up with angry voicemails from Ethan and Margaret. I deleted them without listening. My friends sent texts, dying of laughter.
Ethan showed up that afternoon, pounding on my door. “You tricked me!” he yelled. “This is permanent! You’re nuts!”
I opened the door, looked him in the eye. “Nah, I’m just ‘not future material’ or ‘mature,’ right?”
He stood there, furious but stuck. I shrugged and shut the door.
Margaret came by once, but I didn’t open it.
Six months later, a friend said Ethan moved back with Margaret after his work dried up. He’s been getting laser treatments, but the tattoo’s still there, faint but clear.
He’s on dating apps now, his bio saying: “Looking for someone who respects family values.”
Me? I’m with Caleb now. Planning that revenge brought us closer. He calls me his muse, and I’ve been sketching for his tattoo designs, my heart full again.
Margaret was right—I wasn’t built for her future. But I sure as hell built a better one.
