I was eighteen the first time I realized my mother and I were competing for the same man.

Competing is probably the wrong word, because you can’t really compete with Patricia Morgan in a room that contains oxygen and male attention. You just sort of…fade into the wallpaper while she absorbs everything.

But I didn’t have language for that yet. Back then I just thought, Huh. That’s weird. Why is my mother wearing a cocktail dress to meet my prom date?

I’m Emma. I’m twenty-four now, and for the last six years I’ve been living with the same pattern like it’s a curse someone put on me in high school: any time I bring a guy home, my mother treats him like a prize in a game I’m not allowed to win.

Lingering hugs. Inappropriate comments about their bodies. Suddenly discovering that, whoops, she does own that skin-tight dress she used to wear in her modeling days and gosh, it still fits. All of it wrapped up in this smiling, “I’m just being friendly” act that makes everyone else feel crazy for noticing how wrong it is.

For a long time, I just…took it. I muted my dating life, avoided introductions, let relationships with good guys fall apart because the dynamic with her was too weird to explain.

But three months ago, I finally got tired of losing to my own mother.

So I did something either brilliant or completely insane.

I hired a fake boyfriend to seduce her.

1. Patricia

My mother is fifty-two and absolutely lives for you to know it.

She was a model in her twenties—catalog work, fitness campaigns, a few regional ads she still has framed in her walk-in closet like awards. She never lets anyone forget about it. Her social media is a curated shrine to the golden years and whatever she’s doing to convince herself they never ended.

Even now, she spends three hours every morning on hair and makeup, works with a personal trainer five days a week, and owns dresses that cost more than my rent. She will tell you, unprompted, what procedures she’s had done and which dermatologist you’re an idiot for not calling.

Growing up with Patricia meant you learned early that the mirror was not your friend so much as your judge, and that a woman’s worth could be measured in how many necks snapped when she walked into a room.

I got my dad’s genes: mouse-brown hair that frizzes in humidity, a nose that’s just a little too big, a body that runs more “cozy bookstore employee” than “runway.” I’m cute, I guess. Fine. But next to Patricia, I’ve been background noise my entire life.

At least, that’s how she treats me. Like the supporting character in The Patricia Show.

She does not understand that at 24, I might want my own story.

2. Tyler

My most recent ex-boyfriend was named Tyler.

Tyler was the kind of guy my mother would describe as “nice,” which is Patricia-speak for useful to impress other people but not someone she would have dated.

He was a fifth-grade teacher at the elementary school down the street from my apartment. He wore button-downs that were always a little wrinkled, kept emergency pencils in his car, and had a crooked smile that made kids trust him immediately and adults underestimate him constantly.

We’d been dating for four months when I finally worked up the courage to bring him home for Sunday dinner.

“Are you sure?” he’d asked in the car, fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel. “You sound…hesitant when you talk about your mom.”

“She’s just a lot,” I said, trying to make it sound like a funny quirk and not a warning label. “She likes to be the center of attention. Don’t take anything she says personally.”

He gave me that steady teacher look he probably used on anxious parents. “We’ll be fine,” he said. “I really want to meet your family.”

I wanted that, too. I wanted, just once, to have a normal boyfriend-meets-mom dinner that didn’t end with me wishing I’d never introduced them.

We pulled into the driveway of the house I grew up in—a two-story in the suburbs with perfect lawn stripes and seasonal wreaths my mother changed like outfits. I barely had the car in park before the front door swung open.

Patricia stepped out onto the porch like she’d been waiting for a camera crew.

She was wearing a white wrap dress that did things for her figure magazines would have written think-pieces about. Her blond hair was in soft waves around her shoulders, and she’d gone full glam on the makeup. For Sunday dinner. At home.

I glanced down at my jeans and sweater and immediately wished I’d burnt my closet to the ground and started over.

“This is…dressy,” Tyler murmured, taking in the scene.

“This is my mother,” I muttered back.

We walked up the path together. Before I could get a “Hi, Mom” out, she was on Tyler like perfume.

“Oh my goodness, Emma, you did not tell me how handsome he is,” she said, pulling him into a hug that went on several seconds longer than any first-meeting hug had a right to. Her arms wrapped all the way around him, and I watched her press just a little too close to his chest. “I can see why you’re so smitten.”

Tyler shot me a quick, panicked look over her shoulder. I smiled weakly.

“Hi, Mom,” I said.

She pulled back and gave Tyler an appreciative once-over, hand resting on his arm.

“And a teacher,” she added. “I have such a soft spot for educators. The patience you all have, it’s just…so admirable.”

“Thank you,” Tyler said, clearly not sure where to look. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Morgan.”

“Oh, please,” she said, touching his forearm again. “Call me Patricia. ‘Ms. Morgan’ makes me feel old, and I’m not ready to be old yet.” She laughed, and it sounded like she’d rehearsed it in the mirror.

We hadn’t even made it to the living room and she was already in full performance mode.

Dinner itself was torture.

Patricia peppered him with questions in this rapid-fire, intimate way that made it feel like he was on a talk show where the host was trying to sleep with him.

“Tell me about your kids,” she said, leaning forward at the table, elbow strategically propped to boost her cleavage. “Do you get attached? I would. I’d cry at the end of every year.”

“Some classes are harder to say goodbye to than others,” Tyler said politely.

She laughed at everything he said like he was doing stand-up. When he mentioned liking sci-fi movies, she touched his wrist and said, “Oh, Emma hates those. Finally, someone I can go see Star Wars with.” When I brought up that I’d seen every Star Wars movie with Tyler already, she waved me off.

“That’s not what you said about the last one,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You complained about the explosions.”

“Because you answered the phone three times in the theater,” I said under my breath.

He talked about how his favorite part of teaching was the moment a complicated concept finally clicked for a kid. She said, “You must be so patient,” and then followed it up with, “I wish you’d been Emma’s teacher. She never listened to me when I tried to help with homework.”

That was her favorite trick: insult me in a way that made her sound self-deprecating, then pivot back to gushing over the guy like we were all in on the joke of what a handful I was.

At one point, I got up to get dessert. As I crossed into the kitchen, I heard her lower her voice.

“You know, Emma never brings anyone home,” Patricia said conspiratorially. “I was starting to worry she’d never find someone good enough for her.”

Tyler said something I couldn’t make out.

“She’s picky,” my mother went on. “It’s one of the things I love about her. I just hope she realizes what she has.” There was a meaningful pause. “I hope you realize what you have.”

When I came back with the pie, Tyler looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin.

Patricia looked like she’d just won a game I didn’t know we were playing.

After he left, she cornered me in the hallway like always.

“He seems nice,” she said in that tone she used right before saying something cruel.

“He is nice,” I said, hugging myself.

“Maybe a little…simple for you,” she went on, pursing her lips. “Elementary school teacher. You could probably do better. But,” she added quickly, reading the look on my face, “if you’re happy, that’s what matters.”

This was the pattern.

Phase 1: Flirt outrageously to see if they’ll respond.

Phase 2: Undermine them to me, plant seeds of doubt.

Phase 3: Start reaching out to them privately “as a concerned mother” to “make sure they’re treating my daughter right.”

Phase 4: Relationship dies a slow, confusing death as the guy gets increasingly weirded out and I lose my mind trying to explain my mother without sounding insane.

I’d seen it three times already.

I told myself this time would be different.

I was wrong.

3. The Texts

Two weeks after the dinner, Tyler and I were on his couch grading spelling tests and watching some terrible action movie he insisted I “just had to see for the explosions alone.”

“Hey,” he said suddenly, setting down his red pen. “Can I talk to you about something kinda…awkward?”

My stomach dropped. My brain ran through every worst-case scenario in under a second.

“Sure,” I said. “What’s up?”

He unlocked his phone, hesitated, then handed it to me.

“Your mom has been texting me,” he said. “And I don’t know what to do about it.”

I felt that sentence more than I heard it. Like the air got sucked out of the room.

“What kind of texts?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay neutral.

I scrolled.

At first, they were “innocent” enough.

Patricia:
Hi Tyler, this is Emma’s mom. 🙂 Just wanted to say it was so nice meeting you the other night!

Tyler:
Hi Patricia, nice meeting you too! Thanks again for dinner.

Then:

Patricia:
How’s your week going? The kids keeping you busy?

Patricia:
Saw this article about teacher burnout and thought of you. Hope you’re taking time for yourself too!

Then:

Patricia:
I know Emma can be…private about her feelings, lol. If you ever need advice on how to make her feel appreciated, I’m your girl. 😉 I’ve known her a long time.

I could feel my face heating.

“She says she just wants to make sure I’m treating you right,” Tyler said quietly. “But some of these messages feel…weird.”

I scrolled further.

Patricia:
There’s this great yoga class on Saturdays. You should come sometime, it’s right by the coffee shop. We could grab a latte after and talk about how my girl is doing. Mom to boyfriend, no pressure!

Patricia:
You seemed tense at dinner. Massage is my secret weapon. 😉

I wanted to throw her phone into the sun.

“This is totally inappropriate,” I said. “I’m so, so sorry. This is exactly why I don’t usually introduce guys to her.”

“Has this happened before?” he asked.

I stared at the messages.

“Every single time,” I admitted.

He leaned back against the couch, processing that.

“Emma,” he said finally. “That’s not normal. You know that, right?”

“I know,” I said, and I did. I’d known for years. But knowing something is wrong and knowing how to deal with the person causing it are two very different problems.

“I don’t want to cause problems between you and your family,” Tyler went on. “But I don’t really feel comfortable…texting your mom like this.”

“You shouldn’t,” I said, throat tight. “You’re completely right.”

“I told her I thought keeping communication between us about you should go through you,” he said. “She sent back a sad face and said she just cares about you so much.”

Of course she did.

Three days later, Tyler broke up with me.

We sat in that same living room, the movie paused on some mid-explosion frame, spelling tests abandoned on the table.

“I really care about you,” he said, eyes glossy. “But I can’t handle your mother. The constant texts. The way she looks at me. The things she says about us.”

I wanted to tell him I understood. That I didn’t blame him. That honestly, if I could break up with my mother, I would.

Instead, I nodded and pretended my heart wasn’t cracking.

He hugged me, whispered, “You deserve better than this,” and I knew he meant my home life, not him. Then he walked me to my car and watched me drive away, and I cried until I couldn’t see the road.

It wasn’t just losing him. It was the devastating realization that unless I figured out how to deal with Patricia, I was going to keep losing like this. Over and over. Until maybe no one would be left to lose.

That night, sitting on the floor of my apartment surrounded by used tissues and half-eaten ice cream, I realized something that made me nauseous:

I was going to spend my life alone if I didn’t change something.

It wasn’t just bad luck or dating apps or “men are trash.” It was a saboteur living rent-free in my phone contacts under “Mom.”

That’s when I came up with the fake boyfriend plan.

4. Alex Russo, Professional Chaos

I needed someone who could handle Patricia.

Someone who wouldn’t be flattered or intimidated by her attention. Someone who didn’t want anything from her. Someone who could withstand the full blast of the Patricia Morgan charm offensive and not get sucked into orbit.

A normal guy would be crushed.

I needed someone immune.

And then I remembered Alex Russo.

Alex and I had been friends in college. We worked on the theater crew together while he studied acting and I studied art history. He was exactly the kind of person the word “gorgeous” was invented for—tall, dark hair, green eyes, cheekbones you could slice bread with, and a smile that made half the campus do stupid things.

Professors extended deadlines for him without him ever asking. He’d flirt with the cafeteria staff and somehow wind up with double portions. He could’ve been unbearable, but he had this genuine, chaotic energy that made you feel like you were in on the joke, not the butt of it.

He also hadn’t been fully out back then. Not to everyone. Rumors floated, but he’d only told a few friends he was gay and dating a guy at another school.

We’d drifted after graduation, the way people do. Still followed each other on social media—me with my museum job posts, him with pictures from auditions and small productions, and, eventually, photos of him and his boyfriend Marcus moving in together, celebrating anniversaries, going to Pride.

More importantly, Alex was the one person I could think of who absolutely loved drama and had zero patience for manipulative people.

I picked up my phone and sent him a long, rambling message explaining the situation with Patricia. How she flirted with my boyfriends. How she sabotaged my relationships. How Tyler had just left because he couldn’t handle her. How I was desperate.

His response came back in under five minutes.

Alex:
Oh. My. God.

This sounds like the most fun I’ve had in months.
Marcus is going to love hearing about this.
When do we start?

When we met up for coffee that weekend, he looked even more attractive than I remembered. Time had only sharpened him. His hair was a little longer, his jaw a little stronger. He wore a leather jacket like he’d invented the concept.

He spotted me before I saw him and exploded out of his chair, nearly knocking over his latte.

“EMMA MORGAN,” he shouted across the café. “You devious little gremlin. Look at you.”

I stood, laughing as he wrapped me in a hug that smelled like cedar and expensive cologne.

“You look like an Apple commercial,” I said when we sat down. “Is that allowed?”

He flipped his hair. “I contain multitudes. Now,” he said, leaning in, eyes sparkling. “Tell me everything about this monstrous, gorgeous mother of yours.”

I did.

I told him about prom. About the lingering hugs, the private texts, the criticism disguised as concern. I told him about Tyler and how good he’d been and how I’d watched yet another relationship crumble under Patricia’s need to be the center of attention.

“So what’s the goal here?” Alex asked when I finished. “Are we trying to make her back off? Or are we going full revenge plot?”

“I just want her to leave my actual relationships alone,” I said. “If she’s busy obsessing over you, maybe she’ll stop sabotaging my real dating life.”

He considered that, spinning his mug.

“So I need to be charming enough to get her attention,” he said slowly, “but unavailable enough to frustrate her.”

“Exactly.”

He grinned like a cat who’d just found the cream.

“I can do that,” he said. “Oh, can I do that.”

We started planning.

We invented a backstory: we’d reconnected through mutual college friends. We’d been seeing each other for two months. Things were getting “serious” enough that I wanted him to meet my mother.

Alex would play the perfect boyfriend—attentive, kind, successful in that vaguely impressive theater-adjacent way. Not too flashy; Patricia hated competition. He’d act fascinated by her stories, flatter her, ask for her advice. But he’d keep one hand on my knee, one arm around my shoulder, make sure every compliment ran through me somehow.

“The key,” Alex said, wagging a finger, “is to make her feel like she’s in competition with you. Like I might choose her if she plays her cards right.”

“That sounds terrible.”

“It is terrible,” he agreed cheerfully. “It’s also exactly how her brain works, right? She can’t stand the idea that you have something she can’t have.”

I thought about all the times I’d watched her eyes follow my boyfriends around the room like they were shiny objects she’d misplaced.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Exactly.”

“Okay,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Let’s go make your mother fall in love with a gay man.”

5. Sunday Dinner, Take Two

Two weeks later, Alex and I drove to my mother’s house for Sunday dinner.

“Do I look like a plausible straight boyfriend?” he asked as we pulled into the driveway, adjusting his collar.

“You look like every woman on Instagram’s thirst trap fantasy,” I said. “You’ll be fine.”

He smirked. “Good. I want her to think I make bad decisions at the gym.”

My mother answered the door before we could knock. She’d outdone herself this time.

Tight red dress I’d never seen before, hair in soft blow-out waves, full Kardashian-level contouring. She was glowing like she’d eaten the sun.

“You must be Alex,” she said, extending her hand like he was meeting royalty. “Emma has told me so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Alex said, taking her hand and kissing the air near it like he was in a period drama. “And you must be Patricia. Emma did not mention how beautiful her mother is. I feel lied to.”

Patricia actually giggled.

I had never seen my mother giggle. She was a throw-her-head-back, throaty laugh person. But she giggled like a teenager with a crush.

“Oh, stop,” she said, swatting his arm. “You’re going to make me blush.”

Too late.

Alex looked at me over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

We moved into the living room. Throughout dinner, I watched him work.

Alex was a master.

He asked about her modeling days, wide-eyed and fascinated. “You must have so many stories,” he said, twirling his fork. “All those photographers, all those interesting people. I bet you were the most gorgeous woman in every room.”

“Well,” Patricia demurred, except she absolutely wasn’t demurring. “It was a different time. I did a little catalog work. Fitness campaigns. Nothing like the big girls in New York.”

“You look like a big-campaign girl,” Alex said earnestly. “Emma gets her bone structure from somewhere, and it is not her father.”

He squeezed my hand under the table, like a secret.

My mother practically glowed.

“Oh, Emma’s always been so shy,” she said. “I keep telling her if she’d just put herself out there more, men would notice.”

“I notice,” Alex said simply. “I think Emma’s perfect exactly as she is.”

You would’ve thought he’d handed me a crown by the way Patricia’s expression shuttered for a moment before she pasted the smile back on.

“Yes, well,” she said briskly. “Of course you do.”

He complimented her cooking. He listened to her re-tell stories I’d heard since childhood like they were new. He asked follow-up questions at all the right moments.

And every few minutes, he’d drop in something like:

“Emma told me you helped her pick out her first grown-up dress. That must’ve been such a special day for both of you.”

Or,

“You raised an incredible woman, Patricia. You must be very proud.”

It was exactly the kind of flattery she lived for, laced with just enough focus on me to keep her off balance.

After dinner, while I loaded the dishwasher, I could hear them in the living room.

“So what’s your workout routine?” Alex asked. “Your arms look amazing.”

“I have a trainer,” my mother said. “We do a lot of weights. It’s all about maintaining tone at my age.”

“At your age?” Alex said, feigning shock. “If you told me you were forty, I’d believe you in a heartbeat.”

More giggling.

“Emma is so lucky to have someone who appreciates quality,” Patricia said.

“Oh, I definitely appreciate quality,” Alex replied.

I physically had to lean against the counter to keep from laughing. It was like watching someone give my mother a taste of her own medicine, except he was better at this game than she was.

When we left that night, Patricia hugged Alex like they’d known each other for years.

“You’re welcome here anytime,” she said pointedly. “Don’t let Emma keep you all to herself.”

“We’ll see you soon,” he said, then winked at her and me just to watch her short-circuit.

As we got into the car, I exhaled for what felt like the first time all evening.

“She likes you,” I said.

“Oh, she more than likes me,” Alex said, fastening his seatbelt. “She’s already planning our affair. Did you see her face when I complimented her dress?”

“That’s disgusting,” I said. “That’s my mother.”

“That is your mother,” he said. “And we are going to teach her a lesson.”

6. Hook, Line, and Yoga Pants

Alex was right: it didn’t take long.

Within days, Patricia started texting him.

We’d agreed from the beginning that he would show me everything and that he’d never respond without us discussing it. I watched messages pop up on his phone while we were hanging out with his real boyfriend, Marcus, eating takeout and playing Mario Kart.

“Wow,” Marcus said, reading over Alex’s shoulder. “She’s subtle like a brick.”

The first texts were benign.

Patricia:
So nice meeting you, Alex! I love seeing Emma so happy. 🙂 Hope your week is going well.

Alex:
Great meeting you too, Patricia. Thanks again for dinner. Emma talks about you all the time.

Then:

Patricia:
Just tried that new wine bar downtown. Have you and Emma been? You’d look so handsome in that lighting.

Alex raised an eyebrow.

“Does she think I’m a lamp?” he muttered.

We wrote back carefully, just enough to keep the hook in.

Alex:
We haven’t been yet. Any recommendations?

Patricia:
Always ask for a booth in the back. It’s more…intimate. 😉

Marcus burst out laughing. “Oh, she is going to combust when she finds out I exist.”

The visits escalated, too.

Patricia suddenly had the ability to “drop by” my apartment with almost psychic timing. She’d text me in the afternoon:

Mom:
In your neighborhood! Thought I’d swing by with some groceries. You eat, right?

What she meant was: Is Alex there?

She’d show up dressed like she was going to brunch with movie producers. Tight jeans, silk blouses, yoga sets that were more “thirst trap influencer” than “practical stretchwear.”

One afternoon, she walked in while Alex and I were watching TV.

“Alex!” she exclaimed, as if she hadn’t been hoping he’d be there. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Oh, hey, Patricia,” he said, standing to hug her. “You look incredible, as always.”

She beamed.

“I brought homemade cookies,” she said, setting a Tupperware on the counter. “I know Emma never takes care of herself properly. I worry.”

“Don’t worry,” Alex said solemnly. “I’m making sure she’s well taken care of.”

Patricia’s smile faltered for a split second.

Then she recovered.

“Well,” she said. “That’s…good to hear.”

She stayed for two hours that day, telling Alex about some new yoga studio she’d joined and asking if he’d ever tried hot yoga.

“It really releases all your tension,” she said, hand on his forearm. “You should come with me sometime. We could grab a smoothie after. My treat.”

He flashed his million-dollar smile. “You know, Emma keeps telling me I should try yoga. Maybe I will.”

She practically radiated smugness.

After she left, Alex flopped onto my couch and groaned.

“Your mother just invited me to a hot yoga date,” he said. “I’m doing this for you and I want you to know I expect to be buried in a hero’s grave.”

“This is insane,” I said, laughing and horrified at the same time. “You’re like…her final boss battle.”

“I’m not her final anything,” he said darkly. “But I am the reason she’s about to hit a wall.”

7. “I Think I’m Falling in Love With Your Boyfriend”

Six weeks into our fake relationship, I got a call from my mother that started like every other “I need attention” call and ended like a horror movie.

I was at my desk at work, half-heartedly shuffling through paperwork, when my phone lit up.

MOM

I stared at it for a second, then answered.

“Hey, Mom,” I said.

She sniffled.

“Emma,” she said, “I need to tell you something.”

My stomach dropped.

“Okay…”

“I think I’m falling in love with Alex,” she blurted, and burst into tears.

For a second, I genuinely thought I’d misheard her.

“Mom, what are you talking about?” I asked.

“I know it’s wrong,” she sobbed. “I know he’s your boyfriend. But I can’t help how I feel. He’s just so…wonderful. He really understands me in a way most men don’t.”

“You’ve known him for six weeks,” I said, because my brain was short-circuiting.

“Sometimes that’s all it takes,” she said. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t. But I think Alex might have feelings for me, too.”

I had to sit down.

“What.”

“The way he looks at me,” she went on. “The things he says. I think he’s just staying with you because he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

I was quiet for so long she asked if I was still on the line.

“I’m here,” I said, staring at the wall.

“Maybe we should all sit down and talk about this like adults,” she sniffed. “I think if we’re honest about our feelings, we can figure out what’s best for everyone.”

I got off the phone as quickly as I could and called Alex.

“We’ve reached critical mass,” I said when he picked up. “She thinks she’s in love with you. She wants to steal you from me. She wants a—” I had to choke on the words “—conversation about feelings so we can, like, negotiate my boyfriend.”

“Oh, this is perfect,” he said.

“Perfect? This is a nightmare. She’s completely lost her mind.”

“No,” he said. “This is exactly what we wanted. She’s so obsessed with the idea of stealing your boyfriend that she’s willing to blow up your ‘relationship’ to get him. Now we can show her exactly what it feels like.”

“What do you mean?”

“Set up that conversation,” he said. “At your place. Saturday. Tell her we’re all going to talk honestly about how we feel.”

I was suddenly very aware that I’d willingly unleashed a theater kid on my narcissistic mother with no supervision.

“Alex…”

“Trust me,” he said. “She’s forgotten something very important about me.”

8. The Reveal

Saturday evening, my mother arrived at my apartment looking like she was headed to a red carpet.

Tight black dress, spiky heels, hair in glossy waves, red lipstick. She clutched a bottle of expensive wine like a prop.

“Emma,” she said when I opened the door, barely looking at me before scanning the room. “Where’s Alex?”

“In the kitchen,” I said. “Come in.”

She stepped inside, eyes landing on Alex where he stood by the counter, pouring sparkling water into glasses.

“Patricia,” he said, setting down the bottle and crossing the room to give her a hug. “You look absolutely stunning.”

She purred. “Thank you, Alex. You look pretty handsome yourself.”

We settled into the living room. I sat on the single armchair; they took opposite ends of the couch. The air felt thick, like before a thunderstorm.

“So,” my mother said finally, smoothing her dress. “I think we all know why we’re here.”

“We do,” Alex said, nodding. “And I want you to know how much I appreciate your honesty, Patricia. It takes courage to admit your feelings.”

She preened.

“I’m so glad you understand,” she said. “I was worried you’d think I was terrible.”

“Not at all,” he said. “In fact, I think this conversation is long overdue.”

He reached over and took my hand, which seemed to surprise her. Her eyes flicked down, then back up to his face.

“The thing is,” Alex went on, voice gentle, “I need to be honest about my feelings, too.”

“Of course,” Patricia said, leaning forward expectantly.

“Patricia,” he said, “you are an absolutely incredible woman. Beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated. Any man would be lucky to have your attention.”

My mother practically lit up.

“But,” he continued, “I am completely, utterly, head-over-heels in love with Emma.”

Her face fell so fast it was almost comical.

“More than that,” he added. “I’m gay.”

The silence that followed was so loud I could hear my upstairs neighbor’s TV.

“I’m sorry, what?” my mother said finally.

“I’m gay, Patricia,” Alex said. “I’ve been gay my entire life. I have a boyfriend named Marcus, who I’ve been with for three years. Emma and I have been pretending to date because she was tired of you sabotaging her real relationships.”

Patricia looked from him to me and back again, her brain obviously scrambling. Confusion, embarrassment, and then pure rage chased each other across her face.

“This is a joke,” she said. “This is some kind of joke.”

“It’s not a joke,” Alex said gently. “Emma asked me to help her because she was losing every good guy she met to your interference. She thought if you were focused on me, you might leave her actual dating life alone.”

“You’ve been lying to me for two months,” Patricia spat, standing up abruptly.

“You’ve been lying to yourself for years,” Alex replied, unruffled. “Patricia, do you really think it’s normal to compete with your own daughter for male attention? To text her boyfriends behind her back? To flirt with them? To tell them you think they’re too good for her and she doesn’t deserve them?”

“I never sabotaged anything,” she snapped. “If those boys couldn’t handle a little friendly attention from my daughter’s mother, then they weren’t good enough for her anyway.”

I stood up, too, heart pounding.

“Friendly attention?” Alex said. He pulled out his phone. “Patricia, you invited me to hot yoga. You asked me to get coffee with you three times without Emma. You sent me…these.”

He held up his screen.

On it were the photos Patricia had sent him from her yoga class. Sports bras, tight leggings, glossy lips pushed out just a little too much. Captions like Staying young is a full-time job 😉 and Think Emma would be jealous if I stole you for a workout? lol.

“I never sent you shirtless photos,” she protested weakly.

“They weren’t technically shirtless,” Alex said. “But you and I both know what you were doing.”

“This is outrageous,” she said, turning on me. “How could you do this to me? How could you humiliate me like this?”

“How could I do this to you?” I repeated, incredulous. “Mom, you’ve chased away every guy I’ve dated since I was eighteen. You flirt with them. You text them. You tell them we’re not right for each other. You make me feel crazy for even noticing. And then when they back away, you say, ‘Guess he wasn’t the one.’”

“I was just trying to protect you,” she said. “Men can’t be trusted, Emma. I know that better than anyone. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“By stealing them?” I said. “By making it clear you don’t think I deserve them?”

“If they were so easily swayed, they never loved you,” she snapped.

Alex stood up now, too, stepping between us slightly like a referee.

“Patricia,” he said, voice calm. “This isn’t about whether those guys were perfect. It’s about the fact that you keep inserting yourself into your daughter’s relationships in ways that are inappropriate.”

She pointed a trembling finger at him.

“You led me on,” she hissed. “You pretended to be attracted to me. You flirted. You made me think—”

“I mirrored your behavior back to you,” Alex said. “So you could see how it looks from the outside. I never once initiated anything. You did that all on your own.”

Her face went white.

“I’m leaving,” she announced, grabbing her purse. “And don’t expect me to speak to you again anytime soon, Emma. Maybe when you grow up and learn how to treat your mother with respect.”

She stomped to the door, heels clicking. Her hand shook as she yanked it open.

“And as for you,” she said to Alex, “you are a pervert. I hope you and your boyfriend are very happy deceiving people.”

Then she slammed the door so hard my neighbor’s dog started barking.

The apartment was suddenly, blessedly quiet.

Alex and I stood there for a moment, heartbeats loud in my ears.

“Well,” he said finally. “That went better than I expected.”

“She threw a bottle at my wall,” I said, staring at the wine dripping down the plaster.

“She missed the TV,” he said. “I’ll take that as a win. Also, she is absolutely not going to flirt with your next boyfriend. At least not like that.”

“Because she’s embarrassed?”

“Because,” he said, “she knows now that people are watching. That you’re not just going to roll over and accept it.”

I sank onto the couch, suddenly exhausted.

“For the record,” Alex added, sitting beside me, “you deserve somebody who chooses you without needing to be manipulated into it. Your mother’s nonsense doesn’t change that.”

For the first time in a long time, I believed that might be possible.

9. The Smear Campaign

For three weeks, my phone was dead silent.

No calls from Patricia. No texts. No “in your neighborhood” surprise visits.

It was the longest we’d gone without speaking since I moved out at eighteen.

At first, it felt…good. Peaceful. Like a noise machine finally switched off.

Then my aunt Linda called.

“Emma, honey,” she said, “we have a problem.”

“What did she do?” I asked, because with my mother there was always a “she” and a “did.”

“She’s been staying with me since…whatever happened at your house,” Linda said. “And she’s been telling everyone a very different version of events.”

Of course she had.

“What’s her version?” I asked, already bracing myself.

“According to Patricia,” Linda said, “you brought home a gay man and pretended he was your boyfriend because you were jealous of the attention he was giving her. She says you orchestrated the whole thing to humiliate her because you can’t stand that men find her attractive.”

I actually laughed. It was that or scream.

“That’s not what happened,” I said.

“I know that,” Linda said. “I’ve known your mother for fifty-two years. But she’s been calling everyone in the family. All her friends. She even called your cousin’s fiancé and told her to ‘watch out’ for you at the wedding.”

“Oh my God,” I said.

“That’s not all,” Linda continued. “She’s been posting about it on Facebook. Nothing that names you directly, but anyone who knows your family will be able to figure it out. Posts about how hard it is when your own children turn against you. About daughters who can’t handle their mothers being attractive.”

I spent the rest of the day fielding calls and messages.

Some relatives wanted my side of the story. Some already assumed I must have done something terrible because Patricia sounded so hurt when she talked about it.

“She says you made a fool of her,” my uncle said. “Publicly.”

“She made a fool of herself,” I said. “We just turned the lights on.”

Alex, when I called him crying, was blunt.

“She’s doing exactly what she did with your boyfriends,” he said. “Controlling the narrative so she looks like the victim.”

“I can’t fight this,” I said. “She’s better at this game than I am.”

“Maybe you don’t have to fight it,” he said. “Maybe you let her talk, and you let people think about what she’s actually saying.”

I didn’t understand what he meant until my cousin Rachel called.

“So, let me get this straight,” Rachel said. “According to your mom, you pretended your very gay friend was your boyfriend so you could…make her look bad?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And she’s mad because…your friend revealed he was gay at dinner?”

“Yes.”

“And she was horribly embarrassed by that?” Rachel said. “Why?”

“Because she claims I did it to humiliate her,” I said. “Make her look ridiculous for…being friendly, I guess.”

Rachel snorted.

“If she was just being friendly, why would it be humiliating?” she asked. “You don’t get humiliated by someone coming out unless you were doing something you shouldn’t have been doing.”

Other family members started asking similar questions.

The more they turned Patricia’s version over in their heads, the less sense it made.

Why would I go through an elaborate, months-long charade just because I was “jealous” of my mother? Why would Patricia be so devastated and furious about a “silly prank” if her behavior had been completely innocent? Why was she still refusing to talk to me if all I’d done was introduce her to a gay friend?

Within a week, people started confronting her directly.

“What exactly did you say to Alex that made his coming out so embarrassing?” my aunt apparently asked over breakfast.

“I was just being myself,” Patricia huffed. “I can’t help it if men like me.”

Men like you, I thought. Men like attention.

Online, her vague Facebook posts about “ungrateful children” and “betrayal” started getting more cautious comments.

There are always two sides to every story.
Sometimes we have to look at our own behavior too.

She deleted a few of the harsher posts. She kept the ones that made her look sad and saintly.

She never, ever admitted to doing anything wrong.

But she also never again tried to corner any of my future boyfriends alone.

Her own version of events had made that too risky.

10. James

Six months later, I met James.

He was a lawyer I met through a friend at work. Tall, dark curly hair, kind eyes, the kind of dry humor that snuck up on you. He listened more than he talked, which was new for me.

On our third date, at a tiny Thai place downtown, I told him everything.

“I feel like I need to disclose this,” I said, nervously shredding my napkin. “My mother has…a pattern. With men I date.”

I told him about Patricia. About the flirting. The texts. The fake boyfriend operation with Alex. The blow-up. The smear campaign.

I waited for the look. The one I’d seen on other faces when I mentioned my mother. That mix of reluctance and calculation: Is any relationship worth this much drama?

Instead, James took a sip of his drink and said, “So you got a gay actor to pretend to be your boyfriend in order to teach your narcissistic mother a lesson.”

“In a nutshell, yeah,” I said.

“That’s either the most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, “or the most insane.”

“Probably both,” I said.

He grinned.

“I like it,” he said. “Shows creativity. And problem-solving skills.”

“You’re not…scared off?” I asked.

“Of you?” he said. “No. Of your mother? Maybe a little. But I argue with judges for a living. I think I can handle Patricia.”

He was right.

When I finally introduced him to her, the dynamic was different from the start.

She still answered the door in a flattering dress. She still hugged him just a beat too long. She still gave him those measuring looks over her wine glass.

But there was a caution there now. An awareness.

And James—God bless him—never took the bait.

When she complimented his suit and asked how much it cost, he laughed and said, “Lawyer discount,” then immediately turned to me and said, “Emma helped me pick the tie. She has great taste.”

When she tried to steer him into private conversation about his career, he said, “Actually, Emma and I have been talking about that a lot. What do you think, Em?” and pulled me right back into the center of the circle.

When she said, “I hope you’re not getting too serious too quickly,” he smiled and said, “I’m pretty serious about knowing a good thing when I see it.”

He never disrespected her.

But he made it abundantly clear he was there for me.

By the end of the evening, Patricia looked frustrated and a little…bewildered. Her usual tactics had bounced right off him. He’d been polite, charming, and impervious.

She didn’t text him. Not once.

Because if she did—and I found out—she knew exactly what I was capable of.

James and I got engaged two years later.

When we announced it at a family dinner, Patricia pursed her lips and said, “Well, I suppose he’s acceptable,” which, coming from her, was practically a standing ovation.

Then she added, “Though I still think you’re both very young to be making such a big decision,” even though we were twenty-seven and thirty-one.

The wedding planning was its own psychological minefield.

She tried to take over, of course. Suggested we needed a bigger venue. A more expensive photographer. Flowers that would be “more photogenic.”

“Patricia, I appreciate your input,” James would say, smiling. “But Emma and I have got it covered.”

She’d pout, then perform for whoever was in the room about what a hands-on mother she was and how hard it was letting go.

At the actual wedding, she gave a toast that was…fine. Sweet, even.

She talked about how proud she was of me. How happy she was to see me with “someone who appreciates her.” How she was excited to welcome James into the family.

For a moment, I let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, the whole Alex debacle had shifted something in her.

Then, during the bouquet toss, she elbowed her way to the center of the cluster of single women and caught my bouquet herself.

“Looks like I’m next,” she announced, winking at James’ unmarried brother.

Some things, apparently, never change.

11. Sophie

Three years later, James and I had a daughter.

We named her Sophie.

She was perfect in the way all babies are perfect: loud and sticky and inexplicably so beautiful that sometimes I’d look at her and feel like my chest might split open.

Patricia was…obsessed.

Becoming a grandmother gave her a new audience. A new role.

She babysat twice a week. She bought more clothes than any baby could wear in a year. She posted photos of Sophie constantly—My little mini-me with filters and hashtags.

Sometimes, I’d catch her looking at James like she was still calculating whether she could steal his attention if she really tried. Old habits die hard.

But then Sophie would do something objectively unremarkable—gurgle, wave a fist, spit up—and Patricia’s entire focus would snap back to her.

Because for the first time in a long time, my mother had someone who gave her unconditional, uncomplicated adoration without understanding any of the subtext.

Babies don’t know about manipulation or sabotage. They just know who feeds them, who makes funny faces, who smells like expensive perfume and always has a new toy.

I watched Patricia on the floor with Sophie one afternoon, stacking blocks, laughing as my daughter knocked them down over and over.

She looked…happy.

That knot of resentment in my chest loosened, just a little.

Alex, meanwhile, married Marcus in a beautiful ceremony where half the guest list was theater people and the other half was people who wished they were theater people.

James and I went, of course. I was a bridesmaid. Patricia came as my plus-one because James had a trial he couldn’t get out of.

We sat at a round table during the reception while Alex and Marcus danced like the world had finally aligned.

“Emma,” my mother said, leaning toward me. “You should introduce that nice tall one to your cousin Jennifer. He seems like he’d be perfect for her.”

“Mom,” I said. “They’re all gay. It’s a gay wedding.”

“Well, you never know,” she said. “Sometimes people experiment.”

I laughed.

After everything, she was still my mother.

Still beautiful. Still oblivious in the ways that suited her. Still utterly incapable of seeing reality if it didn’t line up with the story she needed to tell herself.

But she was also no longer capable of destroying my life.

That was the difference.

12. What Changed

Here’s what I’ve learned:

You cannot fix a narcissistic parent by screaming the truth at them.

They will twist it. They will rewrite it. They will cast themselves as the wounded protagonist in a tragedy they wrote and directed.

You cannot love them into self-reflection.

You cannot find the perfect words that will finally make them see the damage they’ve done.

What you can do is protect yourself.

You can choose partners who won’t be charmed, who won’t be manipulated, who will pull you back into the center of your own story when your parent tries to shove you offstage.

You can set boundaries and defend them even when your entire family tells you you’re being cruel.

You can engineer petty, elaborate, dramatic stunts with your gay actor friend that force everyone else to see what you’ve been living with, even if the person at the center of it never will.

Alex’s fake boyfriend plan did not cure my mother.

She still thinks she’s the victim of a cruel prank.

She still tells people I embarrassed her because I was “jealous of the attention” she got from my “boyfriend.”

She still refuses to admit that she did anything wrong with Tyler or the ones before him.

But she also now knows that I will not swallow her behavior quietly.

She knows I’m willing to put on a whole production if I have to, and that my friends will help me.

That knowledge trapped her in a cage of her own making.

If she starts flirting with James—or any future boyfriend—to the degree she used to, she risks losing the victim narrative she relies on. She risks other people asking, once again, what she did to make herself look so bad.

Her narcissism keeps her in line.

And that, weirdly, works in my favor.

I used to think a happy ending meant a healed relationship. An apology. A tearful “I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done, I see it now.”

With Patricia, that’s never coming.

My happy ending looks different.

It looks like a husband who chooses me, without question, and laughs at my mother’s theatrics instead of being drawn into them.

It looks like a daughter I can raise knowing she deserves love that isn’t conditional on how she looks or how entertaining she is.

It looks like a group of friends, including one chaotic gay theater kid, who remind me that I’m not crazy, that what I went through was real, and that I’m allowed to defend myself.

My narcissistic mother still hits on men, still needs to be the center of attention, still thinks I don’t deserve the things I have.

But she doesn’t get to decide what I deserve anymore.

I do.

And I’ve decided I deserve better than losing every good thing in my life to someone else’s empty need.

So I took my life back.

One fake boyfriend, one confrontation, one boundary at a time.

And I don’t regret a single second of it.

THE END