“Because, as of this morning, I sold the apartment.”
His jaw dropped.
“You WHAT?!” Patrick shrieked, lunging toward the papers as if he could undo what had already been done.
“You heard me,” I said, grinning. “I signed the paperwork this morning. The money’s already in my account.”
Patrick looked like he might pass out.
His face paled, and for the first time since I’d known him, he had nothing to say.
“You—you’re lying,” he whispered.
I shrugged. “Call the realtor. Ask.”
He stumbled backward, his eyes darting wildly to his mother, who grabbed his arm in sheer panic.
“Mom, what do we do?!”
And that?
That was the final nail in the coffin.
I grabbed my purse, walked to the door, and turned back.
“You’re right, Patrick. I wasn’t gonna do any better. But lucky for me…” I flashed him the brightest, most satisfied smile of my life.
“I just did.”
Then, I pointed to the door.
“Now, get the hell out of this house.”
The apartment sold faster than I expected. Within a week, the paperwork was finalized, the money was in my account, and I was gone. I moved to a new city, got a cozy little apartment on my own terms, and started afresh.
No freeloaders. No manipulative boyfriends. Just me, living life the way I deserved.
Patrick, of course, lost his mind.
He called nonstop, begging to “work things out.” He swore he “never meant to hurt me” and that we could “start over.”
Blocked.
His mother left a three-minute voicemail calling me a “heartless little witch” for “ruining her son’s future.”
Also blocked.
A mutual friend later told me Patrick had no savings, no backup plan, and—big surprise—was still living with his mom.
And me?
I was in my new apartment, sipping wine on my balcony, happier than I’d ever been.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t settling.
Source: amomama
