Ethan had just proposed to me. Nothing fancy — just the two of us on my tiny apartment balcony, passing around a carton of noodles and too much wine. The city skyline twinkled behind him, and he suddenly pulled out a ring with trembling fingers and a sheepish grin.
I said yes before he could finish asking.
From there, everything moved fast. We dove headfirst into wedding planning: low-key, nerdy, completely “us.” We imagined ramen bars, themed cocktails, and a cosplay photo booth with lightsabers and wizard hats. The kind of wedding that made traditionalists wince — and we loved it.
Ethan was a freelance software developer, and I was a comic book illustrator who spent my days drawing fantasy villains and anime battles for indie publishers. We weren’t rolling in money, but we didn’t care. We had each other. At least, I thought we did.
A few weeks into our engagement, Ethan mentioned it was time for me to meet his mom.
Her name was Veronica. He’d always been vague about her. “She’s a little… intense,” he’d said. “Opinionated, but harmless.”
I wasn’t nervous — not really. I believed in first impressions and knew how to charm a tough crowd when needed. I wore a nice blouse, fixed my curls, grabbed a bottle of Pinot, and drove to her house with my heart cautiously open.
Her home looked like something out of a real estate magazine — pristine hedges, massive columns, a driveway long enough to land a plane. I parked behind Ethan’s car, smoothed my clothes, and walked up the stone steps, rehearsing pleasant small talk.
Veronica opened the door with the kind of smile that looked like it had been practiced in a mirror.
“Oh, Lila! You’re even prettier in person!” she beamed, reaching out to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear — without asking. “Is this all natural?”
“Uh… mostly,” I said. “Dandruff shampoo and stress.”
She laughed, big and theatrical, like I’d made the funniest joke of the year.
Dinner was homemade lasagna — rich, layered, and suspiciously perfect. She poured the wine I brought and asked me all about my work. I told her about the comic convention I’d recently attended, where I’d dressed as a villain from a dark fantasy manga. Some guy had followed me around yelling, “Dark Fairy Queen!” until security stepped in.
Veronica listened. Laughed even. I began to think maybe everyone had misjudged her.
After dessert, she looked at Ethan and said sweetly, “Darling, would you help me with something in the study? Just for a moment.”
He nodded. “Be right back, babe.”
While they disappeared, I started cleaning up, still humming. I honestly felt good. Hopeful. Maybe we were really building something strong — even with his intimidating mother.
Ten minutes passed. Then Ethan came out onto the back porch, his face pale and tight, like someone had punched him in the gut.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He rubbed his neck and looked at the ground. “Lila… my mom doesn’t think this engagement is a good idea.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“She says I need to think about my future. That I should be with someone who can support me financially, not someone who’s ‘drawing cartoons’ and attending comic cons.”
He didn’t even look ashamed. Just… conflicted.
“She said you’re cute, but not really wife material. That you’re too immature. And I guess… I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
My chest felt like it caved in. “So what are you saying?”
“I think we should call it off,” he said quietly.
He couldn’t even look me in the eye.
I felt my heart rip straight down the center. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.
I smiled.
“If that’s what you want,” I said calmly, “I respect that. But… can we at least have one final dinner together? One proper goodbye?”
He seemed surprised. “Like… for closure?”
“Exactly. Closure.”
He paused, clearly thrown off by my tone, but then nodded. “Sure. That sounds… mature.”
“Great. I’ll text you the details.”
That night, I sat on my couch alone, processing what had just happened. Yes, I cried. Yes, I let myself mourn. But by morning, I had a plan.
I texted my friend Diego — a well-known tattoo artist in the area and one of my favorite people on the planet. We’d bonded years ago over our shared obsession with fantasy comics, and I’d illustrated several of his tattoo designs.
When I told him my idea, his response was immediate:
“I love this. Let’s emotionally ruin him.”
The dinner happened five days later. Ethan arrived early, hair gelled, shirt tucked in, clearly expecting some kind of emotional ambush or final plea to win him back. I greeted him with a smile, calm as could be.
We had homemade pasta and red wine. I even played soft jazz in the background like we were in a romcom breakup scene. He relaxed quickly. Too quickly.
“This is actually really nice,” he said, sipping wine. “I’m glad we’re being adults about this.”
I nodded. “Me too.”
After dinner, I got up. “Wait right here. I have dessert.”
He looked amused. “Chocolate mousse?”
“Of course. And… one last gift.”
I placed a small velvet box beside his dessert bowl. He looked down, eyebrows raised. “What’s this?”
“A little something to remember me by.”
Inside was a business card from Diego’s studio, along with a note that read:
“For your first tattoo — something truly unforgettable. All paid for.”
Ethan grinned. “You remembered! I’ve always said I wanted one.”
“I know. That’s why I arranged it.”
“Wow. This is really sweet, Lila. Unexpected, but sweet.”
“Just like me.”
He laughed, and I smiled.
The next afternoon, Ethan showed up at Diego’s studio.
According to Diego, he was in a great mood — talkative, confident, excited. He told Diego he wanted something meaningful, something that “marked the end of a journey.”
Diego played along. Told him he had just the thing — a custom design based on my wishes.
Ethan didn’t even ask to see the stencil. Just laid down on the chair, shirt off, ready to become “inked for life.”
Two hours later, he walked out with a massive tattoo stretched across his upper back in elegant black calligraphy:
“Mama’s Favorite Investment – Property of Veronica”
When Diego texted me the photo, I nearly spit out my coffee.
I posted it (with no tags, of course) to my Instagram, captioning it:
“When your ex’s mom breaks up with you but you still want to show your loyalty.”
It didn’t take long before someone sent it to Ethan.
My phone exploded with furious messages. One voice memo had Veronica’s voice shrieking in the background: “It says WHAT?! That’s PERMANENT?!”
I didn’t listen to the rest.
Ethan showed up at my apartment later that week. I watched him through the peephole, pacing, fists clenched.
“You tricked me!” he yelled. “That tattoo’s going to take years to remove!”
I opened the door a crack. “Hey, Ethan.”
“You’re insane! You know that, right? Psychotic!”
I tilted my head. “I’m immature, remember?”
He spluttered. “Do you know how much this is going to cost me to fix?!”
“I guess you’ll have to work harder,” I said, smiling sweetly. “Y’know, to find someone who brings more to the table.”
And I shut the door in his stunned face.
Veronica came by the next day. I watched her through the blinds, ringing the bell over and over. I never answered.
Six months later, I heard Ethan had moved back in with his mother. Apparently, his freelance gigs had dried up, and laser removal wasn’t working fast enough to get rid of the “Veronica” branding across his back.
He’s on dating apps now. A friend sent me a screenshot. His bio reads: “Looking for a woman with ambition and traditional values. Bonus if you’re close with your mom.”
I nearly fell off the couch laughing.
As for me?
I’m dating Diego now. Turns out, revenge makes excellent foreplay. He says I’m his favorite muse, and I’m currently illustrating a dark comedy webtoon based on real events. Spoiler: It includes a character named “Ethan” with a very memorable tattoo.
Veronica was right about one thing.
I wasn’t meant for that future.
I was meant for a better one — and I illustrated the hell out of it.
