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, all of his hesitation disappeared. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to propose. That’s when I knew: I had never been his first choice—only my newfound asset had changed his mind.
For two years, I ignored the warning signs. Patrick never truly gave—no thoughtful gifts, no real effort, and certainly no sacrifices. He still lived with his mother and had no plans to change that. Whenever I mentioned our future, he brushed it off, insisting we needed more time. But everything changed when I told him about my inheritance. That very night, he showed up at my door with flowers, a bottle of cheap wine, and—most shockingly—a ring. Just weeks earlier, he had called engagement “too expensive.” Now, he was on one knee, eager to secure his future.
I played along. With the most convincing excitement I could muster, I accepted his proposal—but with one condition: he could never enter the apartment before me. He agreed instantly, believing he had won the jackpot—a rent-free life in a prime location. Over the next few weeks, he transformed into the perfect fiancé, showering me with affection, cooking half-hearted meals, and casually mentioning all the things “we” should buy for “our” new home. But I saw right through him. He wasn’t building a life with me; he was settling into a life of convenience.
The day the apartment was officially mine, I told no one. But Patrick must have suspected it because one afternoon, I came home early and found him inside—with his mother—measuring the living room. The woman who had barely acknowledged me before was now planning her son’s new living space as if she owned it. When I confronted them, she dismissed me, saying that since Patrick was my fiancé, the apartment was “his home too.” That was the moment I decided I had played along long enough.
I laughed right in their faces. Patrick stammered, trying to convince me that his love was real, but it was too late—the truth was out. His mother accused me of being ungrateful, but I shut her down with one simple fact: I was the one with the apartment. Then, I delivered the final blow—I had already sold it. The paperwork was signed, the money was in my account, and they had lost everything they had banked on. Patrick stood frozen in horror, his mother gasping in disbelief.
Within a week, I packed my bags and moved to a new city. No freeloaders, no manipulative boyfriends—just me, finally in control of my own life. Patrick called nonstop, begging for another chance. His mother left raging voicemails, accusing me of ruining her son’s future. Blocked. A mutual friend later told me Patrick was still living with his mom, broke and lost. Meanwhile, I was on my balcony, sipping wine in my new apartment, feeling lighter than I ever had before. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t settling—I was thriving.