I invited my fiancé to a “farewell dinner” and taught them both a lesson after his mother told him to leave me for a richer woman.

Tyler broke off our engagement after his overbearing mother, Patricia, decided I wasn’t “wife material.”

Instead of falling apart, I invited him to one last dinner — our so-called “closure.” I cooked, smiled, and handed him a farewell gift: a tattoo voucher.

He arrived, smug and drenched in cologne, clearly expecting tears and begging. Instead, he left satisfied — completely unaware that the tattoo he’d soon get inked read: “Property of Patricia — Mama’s Boy for Life.”

By the time he realized, it was far too late. The voicemails, the knocks on my door — I ignored them all.

Months later, word got around: he’d moved back in with Patricia, unemployed and halfway through painful laser removal treatments.

As for me? I moved on — with Devon, the tattoo artist who helped me pull it off. We’re together now. He calls me his muse. We share comics, tattoos, and a mutual appreciation for poetic justice.

Patricia was right about one thing — I wasn’t made for that future.

I made a better one.