I never thought I’d be the type to pull off a long con, but when a man tries to marry you for a free apartment, all bets are off.
My name’s Kendall. I’m thirty-two, work in digital marketing, and live in Baltimore. For two years, I was in a relationship with a man named Patrick Monroe. Tall, charming, the kind of guy who always knew the best rooftop bars and could make a killer Negroni. We met at a friend’s birthday party. He told me he liked women who read poetry. I quoted Sylvia Plath. He was hooked. I should’ve known then — that boy liked performances.
We had fun. The first six months felt like a romantic comedy: picnics in the park, nights spent talking till dawn, cooking together. Then the conversations changed. Every time I brought up the idea of moving in together, or even just planning long-term, Patrick would shift in his seat like I’d asked him to commit a crime.
“We don’t know each other well enough yet,” he’d say with a practiced seriousness, as if he were doing me a favor by not rushing. At first, I respected it. I appreciated someone not love-bombing their way to a mortgage.
But months turned into years. He never introduced me to his parents, and he’d change the subject anytime marriage came up. I stayed patient, thinking he just needed time. Maybe he’d been burned before. Maybe commitment scared him. I was willing to wait — up to a point.
Then, last month, my aunt Lorraine passed away.
Lorraine was my dad’s younger sister, a vibrant, slightly chaotic woman who lived life like she had backup lives stored somewhere. She never had kids, but she treated me like her own. And when she died, she left me her apartment — a three-bedroom place in a historic building downtown, fully paid off.
I wasn’t expecting anything. We were close, yes, but inheritance? That felt like something you only see in movies. When the lawyer read her will and I saw my name, I nearly dropped my phone. It felt surreal.
Naturally, I told Patrick that night. We were at his place — a cramped studio with exposed pipes and a perpetually dripping faucet. I told him Lorraine had left me the apartment, and his entire face changed. His eyes got wide, then suspiciously soft, like he was looking at a newborn puppy.
“Wow,” he whispered. “That’s… incredible, babe. You deserve it.”
That very night, he showed up at my door — with roses, a nervous smile, and a ring.
I stood there, stunned, as he dropped to one knee. The same man who couldn’t even say “someday” when I brought up marriage last week was suddenly gushing about fate and soulmates and forever.
“Kendall Monroe,” he said, “I love you. Will you marry me?”
I stared at him, my heart doing weird things. Not out of joy — out of nausea.
It wasn’t me he wanted. It was square footage.
But instead of blowing up the moment, something inside me clicked. I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt, clutched my chest like a soap opera heroine, and gasped.
“Yes! I’ll marry you!”
He laughed, relieved, almost like he was winning a game. Then I held up one finger.
“On one condition.”
His smile faltered a bit. “Anything, babe.”
I took a breath, trying to hide how much fun I was suddenly having.
“From now on, you will always follow one rule of mine.”
He blinked. “What rule?”
“You’re going to help me take care of Lorraine’s memory. That means respecting every part of her lifestyle. And my family’s traditions. No questions asked.”
He looked puzzled, but nodded. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
Perfect.
We moved into the apartment two weeks later. He strutted around like he owned the place, already talking about “my office” and asking whether we could repaint. I made a show of hesitating.
“Lorraine loved this color,” I said, gesturing to the eggplant-colored walls. “We can’t just erase her.”
He groaned, but agreed.
Then came “family traditions.”
“Oh, we do weekly memorial nights,” I told him one night while chopping garlic.
“Memorial nights?”
“Yeah. Lorraine believed that spirits stay with us through food and routine. So every Thursday, we cook her favorite dish, wear her old scarves, and watch her favorite shows.”
Patrick laughed, thinking I was joking. I didn’t blink.
“You promised. No questions.”
So Thursday nights became a parade of rituals. He had to wear a paisley scarf Lorraine once wore to Burning Man and eat cold beet soup — her favorite. I told him we had to play Enya while we dined and light lavender incense to “cleanse the apartment.” He hated it. But he grinned through it.
After all, this was the price of a free home.
I introduced more “traditions” each week. Saturday mornings? Meditation circles. He had to sit cross-legged and chant her name. “It’s part of our healing process,” I explained. One night I made him sleep in the guest room “to preserve the sacred energy of Lorraine’s spirit.”
His patience started to thin. One day he snapped at me while folding her embroidered napkins.
“This is crazy, Kendall.”
I gave him a long look. “You don’t want to honor my aunt anymore?”
He backtracked fast. “No, I do. Of course I do. It’s just… exhausting.”
I smiled. “Love is exhausting.”
By month three, I could see the cracks forming. He started coming home later. He avoided the Thursday dinners. When I reminded him of our Sunday tea-leaf readings — Lorraine’s “favorite bonding ritual” — he winced like I’d told him he needed a root canal.
One night, I sat him down.
“Patrick,” I said gently. “Are you sure this is what you want? You know… marrying into a legacy. Carrying on family traditions.”
He looked pale. “I… I don’t know anymore.”
I nodded. “It’s okay to walk away if your heart isn’t in it.”
He stared at me for a long time. Then he said, “Maybe we moved too fast.”
The next morning, he packed a bag. I helped him carry it to the elevator.
When the doors closed, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just walked back into my apartment, made myself a cup of tea, and sat on Lorraine’s old couch — the one with hideous floral upholstery.
I looked around and felt nothing but peace.
A week later, I had some friends over. Real friends. We cooked. We laughed. We played Enya unironically. And I finally got to repaint the walls a soft sage green Lorraine would’ve hated — but somehow, I think she would’ve forgiven me.
I still wear her scarf sometimes. Not for tradition. Just because I like how it feels.
And now, when people ask me why I’m single, I just smile and say, “Because I own an apartment and dodged a man who didn’t.”
So what do you think — was I wrong for playing along instead of calling him out? Or was that the only way to make sure his true colors came out? Like and share if you’ve ever outwitted someone who underestimated you.
