Patrick always said we needed more time.
More time before moving in.
More time before getting engaged.
More time before making things official.
But the second I inherited a fully paid-off apartment?
Suddenly, there was no time to waste.
That’s when I realized—
I was never his first choice.
I’d watched my friends fall in love, get engaged, and start their lives with partners who adored them.
Meanwhile, I was the third wheel—always the one taking photos of cute couples, always the joke about becoming a crazy cat lady.
(And I didn’t even have a cat.)
So when Patrick came up to me at a bar two years ago, I thought, Finally.
My turn.
He had this effortless charm and looked at me like I was the only person in the room.
I fell—hard.
For two years, I ignored the red flags.
No gifts. No time. No real effort.
He still lived with his mom and had no plans to move out.
He dodged every conversation about marriage or even living together.
“We don’t know each other well enough yet,” he’d say while scrolling through his phone.
Two years together. And he was still unsure.
I swallowed my disappointment and told myself, Love takes time. Commitment will come.
And then—
Everything changed.
Last month, my aunt passed away unexpectedly.
She had no spouse, no children—just me.
She was like a second mother and always remembered my birthday, even as an adult.
Losing her felt like losing home.
Then came the shock:
She left me her three-bedroom apartment.
It was bittersweet, but it changed everything.
No more renting. No more skyrocketing costs.
I finally had a home of my own.
Of course, I told Patrick.
And that night?
He showed up at my door—with flowers, a bottle of cheap wine, and… a ring.
He stood awkwardly on my doormat, holding a velvet box.
“Babe,” he said, grinning, “I couldn’t wait any longer. Will you marry me?”
I blinked.
Just two weeks earlier, I had brought up engagement and he said:
“Babe, rings are so expensive right now. Let’s not rush.”
But now? He was ready?
I forced a smile.
“Patrick… I— I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” he urged. “We’ve been together two years, babe. It’s time. Let’s build our future together.”
Build.
Now that I had something to build on.
I should’ve returned the ring.
Should’ve confronted him.
But instead, I smiled like the happiest woman alive.
“Yes! I’ll marry you!”
He laughed, relieved, and hugged me too tightly.
“You won’t regret this, babe. We’re gonna be so happy.”
I almost laughed.
Then I stepped back and held up a finger.
“But—there’s one condition.”
His face tensed.
“But…?”
“Just one rule,” I said sweetly. “You must never enter the apartment before I do. Ever. No exceptions.”
He looked confused but shrugged.
“Yeah, babe. Sure. Whatever you want.”
For a few weeks, he played the perfect fiancé.
He called me “queen” instead of “babe” or “dude.”
He cooked for me—well, he boiled pasta.
And he talked about our future.
“We need a huge flat-screen for the living room.”
“I found a gaming chair that would be perfect for the office.”
He was getting too comfortable. Too sure of himself.
All he was really doing?
Waiting for the paperwork.
Eventually, the apartment became officially mine.
But I didn’t tell him right away.
Instead, I came home early from work one day and walked in to see…
Patrick and his mother inside the apartment.
He was measuring the living room.
She was pointing at the windows.
“Sheer curtains would really brighten this space,” she said.
He gasped and dropped the tape measure when he saw me.
“Oh! Babe! You’re home early!”
I calmly set my bag down, crossed my arms, and raised an eyebrow.
“And you broke the one rule I gave you.”
Silence.
“Babe, I—”
His mother chimed in, unfazed:
“Well, dear, now that Patrick is your fiancé, it’s his home too!”
I burst out laughing.
They both looked stunned.
“Oh, you thought we were actually getting married?” I said. “That’s cute.”
“Babe, what are you talking about?”
“Let’s be real,” I said. “You never wanted me—you wanted the apartment.”
His mother gasped.
“How dare you—”
“How dare you plan to move in while I was at work!”
Patrick stammered, trying to calm me.
But I wasn’t done.
“You wouldn’t propose for two years, but the moment I inherit a home, you’re down on one knee?”
“I just realized I love you,” he said.
“Before or after you picked out the furniture with your mom?”
His mother scoffed.
“You’re so ungrateful! My son gave you his last name!”
Then Patrick lost it.
“FINE! You want the truth? I didn’t propose sooner because you’re not the kind of woman men fight for!”
Oof.
“Be grateful I even gave you a chance!”
I inhaled slowly.
“You’re right, Patrick. I could never do better.”
His smug smile returned.
I pulled out a folder and placed it on the counter.
“Which is why I sold the apartment this morning.”
His jaw dropped.
“YOU WHAT?!”
“You heard me. I signed the paperwork today. The money’s in my account.”
He turned white.
“You—you’re lying!”
“Call the agent. Ask.”
He looked at his mom in horror.
“Now what, Mom?!”
That sealed it.
I grabbed my purse.
“You’re right, Patrick. I could never do better… but lucky for me—”
I smiled.
“I just did.”
“Now get out of my house.”
I sold the apartment. Got the money. Moved to a new city.
No freeloaders. No manipulative partners.
Just me, living on my own terms.
Patrick?
He lost his mind.
He called constantly, begging for another chance.
Blocked.
His mom left me a three-minute voicemail calling me a “heartless witch” for ruining her son’s life.
Also blocked.
A mutual friend later told me Patrick had no savings and had moved back in with his mom.
And me?
I sip wine on my balcony every evening, happier than ever.
For the first time, I didn’t settle.