Patrick always had an excuse—more time before moving in, more time before getting engaged, more time before any real commitment. But the moment I inherited a fully paid-off three-bedroom apartment, his hesitation vanished. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to propose, and that’s when I knew: I was never his first choice.
For two years, I had ignored the red flags—the way he never truly gave, never invested in us, and still lived with his mother with no intention of moving out. Every time I brought up the future, he brushed it off, insisting we needed more time. But when I mentioned my unexpected inheritance, everything changed. That same night, he showed up with flowers, a bottle of cheap wine, and, shockingly, a ring. Just weeks earlier, he had dismissed engagement as “too expensive.” Now, he was on one knee, desperate to lock me down.
I played along. I accepted his proposal with the biggest, most excited smile I could fake. But I gave him one rule: he could never enter the apartment before me. He agreed without hesitation, thinking he had won the jackpot—a rent-free life. For weeks, he transformed into the perfect fiancé, showering me with affection and making plans for “our” future in the apartment. But I knew better. He was simply waiting for the moment it became officially mine.
And that moment came. But instead of telling Patrick, I kept quiet. Then one afternoon, I came home early and found him inside—with his mother—measuring the living room for furniture. The very woman who had never cared about our relationship was now treating my apartment like her own. When I confronted them, she dismissed me, insisting that since Patrick was my fiancé, the apartment was “his home too.” That was the final straw.
I laughed in their faces. Patrick panicked, scrambling to convince me that he truly loved me, but the truth was out—he wanted the apartment, not me. His mother accused me of being ungrateful, but I shut her down with one simple fact: I was the one with the apartment. And then, I dropped the final bombshell—I had already sold it. The paperwork was signed, and the money was in my account. Patrick was speechless, his mother horrified. They had counted on my home as their future, and now they had nothing.
Within a week, I packed my bags and moved to a new city. No freeloaders, no manipulative boyfriends—just me, living life on my own terms. Patrick called nonstop, begging for another chance. His mother left furious voicemails, blaming me for “ruining” his future. Blocked. A mutual friend later told me Patrick was still living with his mom, with no savings and no plan. Meanwhile, I was on my balcony, sipping wine in my new apartment, knowing that for the first time in my life—I wasn’t settling.
