From the very beginning, Patrick always told me we needed more time before moving in together, before getting engaged.

He would always insist on more time before taking any real commitment.

But the moment I inherited an already paid-off apartment with three bedrooms? He just couldn’t wait a second longer. That’s when I realized—I was never his first choice.

Through the years, I watched my friends fall madly in love, get engaged, and start their lives with partners who adored them.

And me? I was the third wheel, the one asked to take pictures for couples or the butt of jokes about becoming a crazy cat lady—even though I didn’t even have a cat.

So, when Patrick noticed me at a bar two years ago, I thought: finally, it’s my turn.

He had such a natural charm, and when he looked at me like I was the most fascinating person in the room, I fell hard. So hard.

For two years, I ignored the little things. The fact that he never truly offered—no gifts, no time, no effort.

The fact he still lived with his mom and seemed in no rush to change that. How he’d dodge any discussion about living together or marriage.

“We don’t know each other well enough yet,” he’d always say, barely taking his eyes off his phone.

Two months later, and yet he was still unsure.

I swallowed my hurt, convincing myself that love meant patience and that commitment would come eventually.

Then, something happened.

Everything changed.

Last month, my aunt passed away suddenly and unexpectedly. She was my mom’s older sister, never forgetting my birthdays and sending gifts even when I was an adult.

Losing her felt like losing a part of home.

And then came the surprise.

With no children or spouse, she left me her entire apartment—three-bedroom, already paid for.

It was bittersweet. I’d have given anything to have her back. But owning the apartment changed everything. No more rent. No more constant worry about rising costs. The apartment was now mine.

Of course, I shared this news with Patrick.

And can you guess what happened next?

That very night, he showed up at my door with flowers (his first ever), a bottle of wine (cheap, but still), and most importantly, with a ring.

I opened the door, and there he was on my tiny mat, holding a small velvet box.

“Honey,” he said, grinning widely. “I couldn’t wait any longer. Will you marry me?”

I looked at him, unsure what to say.

Just two weeks before, I had casually mentioned engagement. His response?

“Baby, rings are so expensive right now. Let’s not rush it.”

And now? Now he was ready?

I choked back a tear, plastering on my best surprised smile. “Patrick… I… don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” he insisted, eyes gleaming. “We’ve been together two years, honey. It’s time. Let’s build our future together.”

Build. Sure. Because now I had something to invest in. I should have thrown the ring back at him. Should have confronted him.

But instead? I forced the biggest, exaggerated smile I could muster.

One that would make anyone believe I was the happiest woman in the world.

“Yes! I’ll marry you!” I said, struggling to get the words out.

Patrick sighed in relief, sliding the cheap ring on my finger like he’d just won the lottery. Which, in his mind, he likely had.

He pulled me into his arms, hugging me a bit too tightly. “You won’t regret it, babe,” he whispered into my hair. “We’ll be so happy.”

I held back laughter, instead pulling back, holding up the ring between us. “But…”

His face fell. “But…?”

I gestured with my head, presenting him the sweetest yet most serious look I had. “I have one condition.”

His tense arms relaxed. “Oh, baby, whatever it is, we’ll handle it.”

I took a deep breath before dropping the bombshell.

“From now on, you’ll follow one rule.” I paused, letting him lean in, curious.

“Never enter the apartment before me. Never. No exceptions.”

The smile vanished from his face for a moment.

He furrowed his brow. “Uh… what?” He let out a short, nervous laugh, as if I told him to quit video games forever. “Why?”

“It’s a personal matter,” I replied calmly. “If we’re to be married, you should respect that.”

Patrick hesitated, his mouth opening and closing like he was searching for the right argument.

But then, confident he’d already won the grand prize—a rent-free life—he nodded with a sly grin at me.

“Yes, dear. Sure. Whatever you want.”

In the weeks that followed, Patrick turned into the ideal fiancé.

He began calling me “my queen,” which was funny, because before he’d only called me “babe”—or worse, “girlfriend” when distracted.

For the first time, he cooked dinner. Well, if boiling pasta and pouring jarred sauce counts as cooking.

But I smiled and thanked him as if he were a five-star restaurant chef.

He started talking about our future in the apartment.

“Honey, I thought we should get a giant TV for the living room.” Or: “I saw a gaming chair on sale. It’ll look great in our home office.”

He was getting too comfortable. Too assured. Yet I wasn’t fooled. Underneath that sweet smile, I knew he was waiting.

Waiting for the day the apartment would officially be mine.

And indeed? That day arrived.

The apartment had already been transferred to my name. But I didn’t tell Patrick immediately. Then, one day, I came home early from work, ready to surprise him.

Guess what I found?

Patrick. Inside the apartment. With his mom. Measuring the living room.

I stood in the doorway, stunned, clutching my purse tightly.

His mom—who had never cared about our relationship, who barely noticed me—now gestured thoughtfully.

“I think sheer drapes would brighten up the room,” she commented wistfully.

Patrick, caught in the middle of measuring, turned to me. “Oh! Honey! You’re home early!” he murmured, putting down the tape measure like it burned him.

I set my purse down on the table with clear intention, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” I said coldly, allowing my eyes to travel over them. “I see you broke the rule I gave you.”

Silence.

Patrick swallowed loudly. “Honey, I…”

But before he could try to find an excuse, his mom—bless her demanding nature—waved her hand dismissively.

“Well, darling, now that Patrick is your fiancé, this is his home too!”

And that’s when I lost it.

I laughed in their faces.

Patrick flinched, and his mom’s lips pursed in disapproval. The tension in the room became almost tangible.

“Oh, you actually thought we were really getting married?” I asked, shaking my head like wiping away imaginary tears from my eyes. “How cute.”

Patrick’s eyes widened in horror. “W-what? Honey, of course…”

“No, no, no,” I interrupted, raising my hand. “Let me explain: I knew why you proposed. You never wanted me—you wanted the apartment.”

His mom grimaced as if I had slapped her. “How dare you accuse my son…”

“No, how dare you plan to move into my apartment while I was at work!” I retorted, my voice cutting through the air like a whip.

Patrick now sweating, raised his hands as if trying to calm the situation. “Honey, please, I just…”

“Stop. Just stop.”

His face twisted, stuck between anger and panic, and I could observe his carefully crafted facade beginning to crumble.

But I didn’t stop.

“Let’s talk about what’s really going on, Patrick,” I stated, crossing my arms. “You weren’t ready to get engaged for two years.

Yet when I inherited a fully-paid apartment? Suddenly you’re on bended knee?”

Patrick blinked rapidly, trying to find an excuse. “That’s not it—I just realized how much I love you, baby!”

I laughed aloud. “Really? Then tell me, when exactly did you ‚realize’ this? Before or after you and your mom planned where her furniture would go?”

His mom pursed her lips, advancing like a queen addressing her subjects. “Madam, you are very ungrateful.

My son’s offering your his name, and you treat him like a golden child!”

I nodded, giving her a sweet grin. “Golden child? Funny, because, if I recall, I own the apartment. Your son’s the one not even paying rent.”

Silence. Then Patrick exploded.

“DAMMIT! You want the truth?” He raised his hands. “Yeah! I wasn’t ready to get engaged earlier because, honestly, you’re not the kind of woman men fight for!”

Oh, yes.

But he didn’t stop there.

“You should be grateful someone like me gave you a chance! You never had any hope of better, Janet!”

I took a deep breath. “You’re right, Patrick. Maybe I won’t find better.”

His face brightened, thinking I was giving in. His mom smiled, clearly convinced they had won.

And then I took out my purse, retrieving carefully arranged papers, and tossed them onto the kitchen table.

“Good thing I won’t have to,” I said calmly. “Because as of this morning, I sold the apartment.”

Patrick’s jaw dropped.

“WHAT?!?” Patrick yelled, lunging for the papers as if he could undo what had been done.

“You heard me,” I said, smiling. “I signed the papers this morning. The money’s already in my account.”

Patrick looked as if he would faint. His face paled, and for the first time since I knew him, he had nothing to say.

“You… you’re lying,” he whispered.

I shrugged. “Call the agent. Ask him.”

He staggered back, eyes darting madly to his mom, who clutched his shoulder in pure panic.

“Mommy, what do we do?!”

And that? Was the final nail in the coffin.

I grabbed my purse, headed to the door, and turned back.

“You’re right, Patrick. I won’t find better. But luckily for me…” I smiled with the widest, most satisfying grin of my life.

“That’s exactly what I’ve done.”

Then I gestured toward the door. “Now get out of this house.”

The apartment sold faster than I expected. Within a week, the paperwork was complete, the funds were in my account, and I was gone.

I moved to a new city, rented a cozy little apartment on my terms, and started anew. No parasites.

No manipulative boys. Just me, living the life I deserved.

Patrick, predictably, went berserk.

He called nonstop, pleading for us to “fix things,” swearing he never intended to hurt me and that we could start over.

Blocked.

His mother left a three-minute voicemail, calling me “a heartless witch” for “destroying her son’s future.”

Also blocked.

Later, a mutual friend told me Patrick had no savings, no backup plan and—big surprise—still lived with his mom.

And me?

I was in a new apartment, savoring a glass of wine on the balcony, happier than ever.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t settling for less.

What about you? Have a story to share or any thoughts about finding happiness on your own terms? We’d love to hear from you in the comments below!