TRUE STORY

My Narcissistic Mother Hit On All My Boyfriends—So I Hired a Fake One

How a desperate plan to expose my mother’s manipulation changed my life forever.

I’m Emma. I’m 24 years old, and for the past six years, I’ve watched my mother systematically destroy every romantic relationship I’ve ever had. Not through well-meaning overprotectiveness or innocent meddling, but through something far more insidious: she competed with me for every single boyfriend I brought home.

Yes, you read that right. My own mother—Patricia, a stunning 52-year-old former model who spent three hours every morning on hair and makeup—couldn’t handle the idea that someone might actually want to be with me instead of her.

The lingering hugs that lasted way too long. The inappropriate comments about how handsome they were. The suddenly tight dresses she’d wear whenever they came over. The private text messages. The coffee invitations. The seeds of doubt she’d plant in their heads about whether I was really “good enough” for them.

I’d lost count of how many relationships had crumbled under the weight of her need to be the center of attention. But three months ago, I finally decided to do something about it.

What I did was either brilliant or completely insane—honestly, I’m still not sure which. But it worked. And it changed everything.

The Pattern I Couldn’t Escape

It started with Tyler, my most recent ex before the fake boyfriend plan. He was this genuinely sweet guy who worked as an elementary school teacher near my apartment. We’d been dating for about four months when I finally worked up the courage to bring him home for Sunday dinner.

I should have known better. I’d been through this five times before. But every time I started dating someone new, I’d convince myself that maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time she’d actually behave like a normal mother.

I was wrong every single time.

The dinner followed the script I’d memorized over the years. My mother, looking absolutely stunning in a dress that was completely inappropriate for a family dinner, pulled Tyler into a hug that made him visibly uncomfortable. “Oh my goodness, Emma, you didn’t tell me how handsome he was. I can see why you’re so smitten.”

During dinner, she peppered him with questions—normal getting-to-know-you stuff, except for the way she kept touching his arm and laughing at everything he said like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.

Then came the setup. While I was in the kitchen getting dessert, she moved in for the kill. When I came back with pie, Tyler looked uncomfortable, and my mother was practically glowing with satisfaction.

“He seems nice, honey,” she said after he left, using that tone that meant she was about to say something cutting. “Maybe a little simple for you, though. I mean, elementary school teacher? You could probably do better.”

The Breaking Point

Two weeks after that dinner, Tyler showed me his phone. My stomach sank as I scrolled through text messages from my mother—messages asking about his weekend plans, telling him about yoga classes he might enjoy, suggesting they grab coffee sometime to “talk about Emma’s happiness.”

“Your mom has been texting me,” he said, his voice troubled. “She says she wants to make sure I’m treating you right. But some of these messages feel… weird.”

Weird was an understatement. She was being subtle—she always was—but I could see exactly what she was doing. Creating a private communication channel. Positioning herself as the concerned mother. Making herself indispensable to him. Making him think about her.

But Tyler was different. He actually told me what was happening instead of just ghosting me like the others had.

“I don’t want to cause problems between you and your family,” Tyler said, his eyes genuinely concerned. “But this feels inappropriate.”

“It is inappropriate,” I said, fighting back tears. “And I’m so sorry. This is exactly why I don’t usually introduce guys to her.”

“Has this happened before?”

“Every single time.”

Tyler was quiet for a long moment. “Emma, that’s not normal. You know that, right?”

I did know that. I’d known it for years. But knowing something is wrong and being able to fix it are two completely different things.

Three days later, Tyler broke up with me. “I really care about you,” he said, unable to meet my eyes. “But I can’t handle your mother. The constant texts, the way she looks at me, the things she says about us. It’s too much.”

I cried for hours after he left. Not just because I’d lost another good guy, but because I realized I was going to spend my entire life alone unless I figured out how to deal with my mother.

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

Enter Alex: The Perfect Weapon

I needed someone who could handle my mother’s manipulation tactics. Someone who wouldn’t be flattered or intimidated by her attention. Someone who could give her a taste of her own medicine without getting emotionally involved.

The problem was, I didn’t know anyone like that.

Then I remembered Alex Russo.

Alex and I had been friends in college before we’d lost touch after graduation. He was studying theater then, planning to be an actor, and he was absolutely gorgeous. Tall, dark hair, green eyes, the kind of smile that made professors give him extensions on papers he’d never actually written.

More importantly, Alex was gay—though he hadn’t been open about it in college. I’d seen his social media posts about coming out to his family and moving in with his boyfriend, Marcus.

But the real reason Alex was perfect? He loved drama and had zero patience for manipulative people.

I sent him a message explaining my situation. To my surprise, he was immediately interested.

“Oh honey, this sounds like the most fun I’ve had in months,” he wrote back. “Marcus is going to love hearing about this. When do we start?”

We met for coffee the next weekend to plan everything out. Alex was even more attractive than he’d been in college, with a confident energy that I knew would drive my mother crazy.

“So what’s the goal here?” he asked, stirring his latte. “Are we trying to make her back off, or are we going full revenge mode?”

“I just want her to leave my actual relationships alone,” I explained. “If she’s focused on you, maybe she’ll stop sabotaging my real dating life.”

“Got it. So I need to be charming enough to get her attention, but unavailable enough to frustrate her.”

“Exactly.”

We worked out our backstory: we’d reconnected through mutual friends, had been dating for two months, and things were getting serious. Alex would be attentive but not overly affectionate. Successful but not flashy. Interested in her opinion but not seeking her approval.

“The key,” Alex said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “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. But it’s also exactly how her brain works, right? She can’t stand the idea that you have something she can’t have.”

He was right. And I hated how right he was.

The Performance of a Lifetime

Two weeks later, I brought Alex home for dinner. My mother answered the door in a dress I’d never seen before, her hair and makeup absolutely perfect. She took one look at Alex, and I could practically see her pupils dilate.

“You must be Alex,” she said, extending her hand like she expected him to kiss it. “Emma has told me so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” Alex said, giving her that million-dollar smile. “And you must be Patricia. Emma definitely didn’t mention how beautiful her mother is.”

I watched my mother practically melt. She giggled—actually giggled—like a teenager and ushered us into the living room.

Over dinner, Alex was absolutely masterful. He asked my mother about her modeling career, complimented her cooking, and listened intently to her stories about the fascinating people she’d met over the years. But he also kept one hand on my knee under the table and made sure to include me in every conversation.

“Emma’s so lucky to have such an interesting mother,” he said. “I can see where she gets her confidence from.”

My mother was glowing. “Oh, Emma’s always been so shy. I keep telling her she needs to put herself out there more.”

“I think Emma’s perfect exactly as she is,” Alex said, squeezing my hand. “But I’d love to hear more about your modeling days. That must have been such an adventure.”

For the next hour, my mother regaled us with stories I’d heard a thousand times. Alex laughed at all the right moments, asked follow-up questions, and made her feel like the most interesting person in the world.

After dinner, while I was loading the dishwasher, I could hear them talking in the living room. Alex was asking about her workout routine and skincare regimen, telling her she looked at least ten years younger than her age.

“Emma is so lucky to have someone who appreciates quality,” my mother said, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

“I definitely appreciate quality,” Alex replied.

When we left that night, my mother hugged Alex goodbye and told him he was welcome anytime.

“She likes you,” I said as we drove away.

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

“That’s disgusting. That’s your mother.”

Alex just laughed.

The Trap Springs Shut

Over the next few weeks, Alex’s plan worked perfectly. My mother started texting him within days of that first dinner. Innocent messages at first—asking how work was going, sharing articles she thought he might find interesting.

Alex showed me every message and carefully crafted his responses to keep her interested but not quite satisfied. He was friendly but not flirty. Appreciative but not pursuing.

Meanwhile, my mother started treating me differently. She was nicer to me when Alex was around, almost like she was trying to prove what a wonderful mother she was.

“She’s performing for him,” Alex explained. “She wants him to see her as this amazing, supportive mother so he’ll think she’s relationship material.”

It was working so well that I almost forgot the whole thing was fake.

Then my mother escalated.

She started finding excuses to drop by my apartment when she knew Alex would be there. She’d bring groceries I hadn’t asked for or claim she was in the neighborhood. Always dressed to the nines. Always with some small gift or treat for Alex.

“Your mother brought me homemade cookies,” Alex told me after one of her surprise visits. “She stayed for two hours talking about how worried she is that you’re not eating enough.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I’m making sure you’re well taken care of. That seemed to frustrate her.”

The breaking point came six weeks into our fake relationship. My mother called me on a Tuesday afternoon, crying.

“Emma, I need to tell you something,” she sobbed into the phone. “I think I’m falling in love with Alex.”

My stomach dropped even though I’d been expecting this. “Mom, what are you talking about?”

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

“Mom, you’ve known him for six weeks.”

“Sometimes that’s all it takes. Look, I don’t want to hurt you, but I think Alex might have feelings for me too. The way he looks at me, 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 that she asked if I was still there.

“I’m here,” I said finally.

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

That night, I called Alex and told him what had happened.

“She wants to have a conversation about feelings,” he said. “Oh, this is perfect.”

“Perfect? Alex, this is nightmare territory. She’s completely lost her mind.”

“No, 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 how it feels.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trust me. Set up that conversation this weekend at your place. Tell her we’ll all discuss the situation honestly.”

The Confrontation

Saturday evening, my mother arrived at my apartment dressed like she was going to a red carpet event. Tight black dress, full makeup, hair styled in perfect waves. She brought a bottle of expensive wine and a nervous energy that filled the entire room.

Alex had arrived an hour earlier, and we’d spent the time going over his plan. I still wasn’t sure about it, but I trusted him to handle the situation.

“Patricia,” Alex said, standing to give her a hug when she walked in. “You look absolutely stunning.”

My mother practically purred. “Thank you, Alex. You look pretty handsome yourself.”

We sat in the living room, the three of us forming an awkward triangle. My mother kept glancing between Alex and me, trying to read the room.

“So,” she said finally, “I think we all know why we’re here.”

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

My mother’s face lit up. “I’m so glad you understand. I was worried you’d think I was terrible.”

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

Alex reached over and took my hand, which seemed to surprise my mother.

“The thing is,” Alex continued, “I need to be honest about my feelings too.”

“Of course,” my mother said, leaning forward expectantly.

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

My mother was glowing.

“But I’m completely, utterly head over heels in love with Emma.”

My mother’s face fell.

“More than that,” Alex continued, his voice gentle but firm, “I’m gay.”

The silence in the room was deafening.

“I’m sorry, what?” she finally managed.

“I’m gay, Patricia. I have been 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.”

My mother looked back and forth between us, her face red. “This is a 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?”

“You’ve been lying to yourself for years,” Alex replied. “Patricia, do you really think it’s normal to compete with your own daughter for male attention? Do you really think it’s healthy to sabotage her relationships because you can’t handle not being the center of attention?”

My mother stood up abruptly. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

“No, you don’t,” Alex agreed. “But maybe you should.”

She turned to me, and I could see genuine hurt in her eyes for the first time in years. “How could you do this to me?”

“How could I do this to you?” I repeated, my voice breaking. “Mom, you’ve chased away every guy I’ve dated since I was eighteen. You flirt with them, you text them behind my back, you make them feel guilty for being with me instead of giving you attention. You’ve sabotaged six years of my dating life.”

“I never sabotaged anything. If those boys couldn’t handle a little friendly attention from your mother, then they weren’t good enough for you anyway.”

“Friendly attention?” Alex pulled out his phone and showed her the messages. “Patricia, you asked me to meet you for coffee three times. You sent me photos from your yoga class in sports bras and tight leggings. You told me you thought Emma and I were settling for each other.”

My mother’s face went white. “Those weren’t inappropriate. I was just being—”

“Patricia,” Alex said, his voice kind but firm, “you’re a beautiful woman. But you’re also old enough to be my mother. This behavior isn’t flattering. It’s sad.”

That’s when my mother completely lost it.

The Aftermath

She started screaming about how we’d humiliated her, how we’d made her look like a fool, how she’d never forgive either of us. She threw the wine bottle against the wall, called me an ungrateful daughter, and told Alex he was a pervert for leading her on.

“I’m leaving,” she announced dramatically. “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 stormed out, slamming the door so hard that my neighbor’s dog started barking.

Alex and I sat in stunned silence for several minutes.

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

“Better? She threw a bottle at my wall.”

“But she’s not going to bother your next boyfriend. Trust me, she’s way too embarrassed to pull her usual routine after this.”

Alex was right, but not in the way either of us expected.

For the next three weeks, my mother didn’t contact me at all. No calls, no texts, no surprise visits. It was the longest we’d gone without speaking since I’d moved out of her house.

Then I got a call from my Aunt Linda, my mother’s sister.

“Emma, honey, I need to tell you something about your mother. She’s been staying with me since your fight, and she’s been telling everyone a very different version of what happened.”

According to Patricia, I had brought home a gay man and pretended he was my boyfriend because I was jealous of the attention he was giving her. She was telling everyone I’d orchestrated this whole thing to humiliate her because I couldn’t stand that men found her attractive.

She’d been calling everyone in the family, all her friends, even some people at my work. She was painting herself as the victim of some cruel prank I’d pulled because I was jealous and immature.

“There’s more,” 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 out what she’s talking about.”

I spent the rest of the day fielding calls and messages from relatives who wanted to know my side of the story. Some of them believed me. Others seemed to think there had to be some truth to my mother’s version.

The worst part was seeing how she’d twisted everything on social media. Posts about how hard it is when your own children turn against you. How some daughters can’t handle their mothers being attractive. Articles about narcissistic children who abuse their parents.

But then something interesting started to happen.

Other family members started asking the same questions. Why would I go through such an elaborate plan just to embarrass her if she’d done nothing wrong? Why would she be so upset about being tricked if her interactions with Alex had been completely innocent?

Within a week, the family narrative started shifting. People began asking my mother directly what she’d said and done that made Alex’s revelation so humiliating. She couldn’t explain it without admitting to inappropriate behavior.

Meanwhile, I started dating again.

Finding Real Love

His name was James, and he was a lawyer I’d met through a friend at work. I was completely honest with him about my family situation from the beginning, and to my surprise, he found the whole story more amusing than concerning.

“So your mother has been sabotaging your relationships, and you got a gay actor to pretend to be your boyfriend to teach her a lesson?” he said over our third dinner date. “That’s either the most brilliant thing I’ve ever heard or the most insane.”

“Probably both.”

“I like it. It shows creativity and problem-solving skills.”

James was different from the guys I’d dated before. More confident. More established in his life. Less likely to be intimidated by family drama.

When I finally introduced him to my mother six months later, the dynamic was completely different.

She tried her usual routine, but James shut it down immediately. “Patricia, it’s so nice to meet Emma’s mother. Emma talks about you all the time.”

When she started asking personal questions about his job and his family, James redirected every conversation back to me. “Emma didn’t tell me she was interested in art history. Tell me more about what drew you to that field, Emma.”

When my mother tried to monopolize his attention, James politely but firmly included me in every exchange. “That’s such an interesting perspective, Patricia. Emma, what do you think about that?”

By the end of the evening, my mother looked frustrated and confused. Her usual tactics weren’t working, and James was making it clear that he was there to see me, not to be charmed by her.

After that dinner, she barely tried to interfere in our relationship. She’d still make the occasional comment about how James was “fine” or how she hoped I wasn’t getting too serious too quickly, but the aggressive flirting and inappropriate texting never materialized.

James and I got engaged two years later.

The Wedding

When we announced our engagement to my family, my mother’s response was telling. “Well, I suppose he’s acceptable. Though I still think you’re both very young to be making such a big decision.”

We were 27 and 31.

The wedding planning was its own adventure. My mother tried to take over several aspects of the event—suggesting we needed a bigger venue, a more expensive photographer, flowers that would be more photogenic. But James had opinions about everything, and he wasn’t shy about expressing them.

“Patricia, I appreciate your input, but Emma and I have already decided on the menu,” he’d say when she suggested changing the catering. Or, “That’s an interesting idea, but we’re happy with our photographer.”

She couldn’t flirt her way into getting what she wanted, and she couldn’t manipulate James the way she’d manipulated my previous boyfriends.

For the first time in my adult life, I had a partner who was completely immune to my mother’s tactics.

The wedding itself was beautiful. My mother behaved appropriately, though she did manage to wear a dress that was arguably too attention-grabbing for a mother of the bride. James’s family loved me. My friends were happy to finally meet the guy I’d been raving about. And even my extended family seemed relieved to see me with someone who clearly adored me.

During the reception, my mother gave a speech that was actually sweet and appropriate. She talked about how proud she was of me, how happy she was to see me with someone who appreciated me, and how she looked forward to welcoming James into the family.

For a moment, I thought maybe she’d finally changed.

Then, during the bouquet toss, she positioned herself right in the middle of all the single women and caught my flowers.

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

Some things never change.

Life Now: Three Years Later

James and I have been married for three years now. We have a one-year-old daughter named Sophie, and my mother is absolutely obsessed with being a grandmother.

She babysits twice a week, buys Sophie more clothes than any baby could possibly need, and posts constant photos of them together on social media. Sometimes I catch her looking at James like she’s still calculating whether she could steal his attention if she really tried.

But then Sophie will do something cute, and my mother will be completely distracted by the opportunity to be the center of a baby’s world.

As for Alex, he and Marcus got married last year. I was a bridesmaid in their wedding, and my mother was invited as my guest. She spent the entire reception trying to set up Alex’s single friends with women she knew, apparently having completely forgotten that we’d met because he was gay.

“Emma, you should introduce that nice tall one to your cousin Jennifer,” she whispered during the cocktail hour. “He seems like he’d be perfect for her.”

“Mom, they’re all gay. It’s a gay wedding.”

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

I just laughed. After everything we’d been through, my mother was still my mother. Still beautiful, still charming, still completely unable to see the world from anyone’s perspective but her own.

But she was also no longer able to destroy my relationships. And that was enough.

The fake boyfriend plan worked—not because it changed my mother, but because it changed me. It taught me that I could take control of situations that felt hopeless. That I could protect myself without completely cutting ties. That sometimes the best revenge is simply refusing to be a victim.

My mother still doesn’t think she did anything wrong with my previous boyfriends. She still believes her version of the Alex story, where she was the innocent victim of a cruel daughter’s jealousy.

But she also knows that her usual tactics don’t work on James. And she’s seen what happens when she pushes too far.

That knowledge—that boundary—has given me the space to have both a mother and a marriage. Not a perfect relationship with either, but a real one.

And honestly, that’s probably as close to a happy ending as our relationship is ever going to get.

I’m okay with that.