When I first met Peggy, I knew she was gonna be a problem.

We were introduced by a mutual friend after she moved in next door to my bestie. Right off the bat, she hit me with one of those “You’re so brave for not wearing makeup” kind of compliments, and I just smiled through it. I figured I was being judgy too fast and invited her to our game night.

Yeah. Should’ve trusted my gut.

First game: Sardines in the dark. Harmless, right? Until Peggy literally shoved my head into a bookshelf just to win. Told everyone about it. Laughed. No apology.

Next game: King’s Cup. “Never have I ever… gotten divorced.” Yep. That was directed straight at me. The room went silent, but she looked proud of herself. I just sipped my drink and didn’t give her the reaction she wanted.

Over the next few months, she got more petty—especially when Mark was around.

Mark and I were close, always had been. But to Peggy? He was some kind of prize. Suddenly, every group hang became her personal runway. And I became her favorite obstacle.

Then one day, she overheard me talking about the dragon tattoo I’d been planning for over a year. It meant something—my mom used to collect dragon figurines and always called me her little dragon. I’d been designing the piece with her favorite flowers intertwined. But the second Peggy heard “dragon,” her ears perked up like a damn meerkat.

I saw the grin. And I knew.

“

I live in Brighton now, but this started back when I was still in Manchester. My mum had passed the winter before, and I carried her voice around like a small, warm stone.

Dragons were our thing from when I was little. She collected tiny ceramic ones from charity shops and lined them on the windowsill like a guard. When the sun came in, they glowed.

I had sketched a twisting dragon with soft eyes and curling whiskers, not scary at all. Wild roses climbed around it because those were her flowers. She used to tuck a rose behind her ear to make breakfast feel like a party.

After Peggy overheard me, I panicked. I was so tired of her turning everything into a competition, especially around Mark.

So I made something up on the spot. I told her I loved Spirited Away and wanted Haku wrapped from wrist to shoulder, like a full arm sheath.

She lit up like a Christmas market. She asked about colors, scales, and whether the whiskers should curl or flow. I fed her details like bait.

Two weeks later, she bounded into the pub with a denim jacket rolled to the elbow. A pale green dragon wound around her arm with bright yellow eyes and little clouds. She looked smug enough to burst.

I took a sip of my cider and kept my face polite. Inside, I felt a petty little spark that I didn’t know what to do with.

People asked her about it, and she said, “It’s meaningful.” She flicked a glance at me like she was checking to see if I’d flinch.

I still didn’t get the actual tattoo then. I kept waiting for the right moment, then money got tight, then I changed jobs, then I told myself I’d do it after my birthday. Grief does that to you.

We drifted. Life kept chugging along, and somehow Peggy slid herself into more of our circles. She started hosting game nights, which was wild, given her habit of “accidentally” elbowing people.

Mark stayed friendly with both of us, because that’s who he is. He’s the sort who remembers your tea order and your dog’s birthday. He has a soft spot for chaos.

Peggy loved that. She laughed too hard at his jokes and “borrowed” his hoodie for a photo. It was like watching a cat drag leaves onto your doorstep to prove it knows how to hunt.

Two years passed. I moved to Brighton, got a flat with a view of the sea if you leaned far enough out and wished hard. I started saying “cheers” to bus drivers and finding shells on bad days.

I finally told my friend Rina the truth one rainy afternoon. We were having tea and oat biscuits at her table by the window, and I said, “I never wanted Haku. I made it up because Peggy was listening.”

Rina spluttered and set down her cup so fast the saucer clinked. She said, “Wait. I was there when she got it. I drove her, because she told me she gets faint with needles.”

My stomach did a slow sink. Rina looked at me the way you look at an email that starts with “per my last message.”

“She told the artist,” Rina said, “‘She’s going to be so upset. This is like the exact tattoo she wanted.’” She squinted like she was remembering the exact words. “She wanted it to hurt you.”

Hearing it out loud worked like a match. It wasn’t just petty anymore; it was deliberate. It was a plan to carve herself into something just to carve me out.

I went quiet. I finished my biscuit and stared at the rain making silver lines down the glass. Rina reached across and squeezed my wrist.

“She’s not living in your head for free anymore,” Rina said. “Book the appointment. Do the real dragon. Not the cartoon, the one for your mum.”

Something in me clicked. I walked home through the drizzle, pulled up an old sketchbook, and messaged a tattoo shop in North Laine that I’d been stalking on Instagram for months.

They wrote back with a slot for a consultation. The artist, a woman named Mags with silver hair and a laugh like gravel, said she loved gentle dragons. She told me to bring the sketches and whatever I had of the flowers.

I took the tiny paper rose my mum had folded and kept in a shoebox. I brought photos of the windowsill dragons lined up like tiny knights. I brought all the little pieces of her.

Mags spread them on the table like puzzle parts. She took a pencil and started working, and I felt my shoulders loosen as the lines took shape. The dragon moved like smoke, and the roses tucked around it like it had slept in a garden.

When she asked about color, I surprised myself. I told her I wanted the roses in soft reds and the dragon in hints of blue, like the edge of a storm. I wanted it to feel like home.

We booked dates. It would take two sessions because of the detail and the shading. I walked out floating, and my cheeks hurt from smiling when no one was watching.

Then, because the universe likes drama, Peggy messaged me that night. She said she was coming to Brighton for a weekend with “the gang” and wanted recommendations. She added a selfie of her in a white shirt with the dragon sliding out from the cuff.

I sent her a list of places anyway. I put in the donut shop by the pier and the little Korean place on the corner and the old pub with the tile fireplace. Being decent cost nothing.

On Saturday, the group arrived in a noisy spill. Peggy made sure to stand with her arm angled, dragon forward, in every photo. She tagged me in three and posted a boomerang of clinking glasses.

In person, she was in a mood. She kept nudging conversations into old grudges and saying, “Remember that time you—” as if it were cute. I felt tired and older than I am.

Mark caught me by the bar and asked how I was. He looked at me the way someone does when they know your normal and can tell it’s shifted.

I told him I was getting my dragon. He smiled with all his teeth and said he was happy for me, like it was news about a flat or a dog. He said he’d like to see it when it was done.

Peggy’s eyebrows shot up. She said, “Oh, are you finally doing the Haku? Or did you change your mind again?” She said it with the sugar you put in tea when you’re trying to hide the taste.

I took a breath. I said, “I never wanted Haku. That was a joke. I’m doing something different, for my mum.”

A beat dropped like a spoon. Peggy’s smile wobbled and then fixed. Her eyes did a little flick that said she was choosing which story to tell herself.

She laughed too loudly and said, “Oh, wow, so I got this one for no reason?” She flicked her sleeve up so we all could see it again, as if maybe the light would change the truth.

I didn’t bite. I said, “You got it because you wanted it,” and I meant it like a rope tossed across water. She looked at it like she couldn’t tell if it would hold.

The next week, I had my first session. The buzzing in the shop felt like bees and breath, and Mags worked in slow circles that made my skin feel like it belonged to the drawing. I watched the dragon come alive.

Halfway through, Mags paused and said, “You know, I’ve seen a lot of cartoon dragons lately. People get them off Pinterest and don’t know why they want them.” She smiled without looking up. “Yours isn’t that.”

I told her the story. I kept it tight, like packing a suitcase you don’t want to burst, and she nodded like she’d seen this kind of weather before.

She said, “People confuse attention with meaning. They think if they make noise, it will echo.” She tapped the linework with a gloved finger. “Meaning stays quiet and deep.”

Two days later, my arm felt tender, like a bruise that was also a secret. I wrapped it in cling film and dabbed it with ointment and whispered, “Hi, Mum,” like I had a carved door to talk through.

Peggy posted a photo of herself at the beach, dragon glowing in the sun. Her caption said, “Some people copy, others create,” with a winky face and a lightning bolt. It was vague enough to skip any arguments.

People commented with flames and hearts. I put my phone down and watered my spider plant.

The second session added the color. The roses woke up first, soft and fierce at the same time. The dragon got blue shadows like water thinking about a storm, and I felt something uncoil in my chest.

When it was done, Mags cleaned it and held a mirror. I cried the kind of crying that just leaks quietly because your body needs to make room. It looked like how my mum’s laugh felt.

I took a photo and sent it to Rina and Mark. I didn’t post it yet. I wanted to live in it for a minute without anyone else’s eyes.

Mark called me right away. He said, “It’s beautiful,” in this voice that sounded like a hand on a doorframe when you’re not ready to go yet. Then he said, “Come to London next month. I’m having a little thing.”

I went up on the train and wore a loose jumper so the sleeve wouldn’t rub wrong. Mark’s little thing turned out to be a big thing: a fundraiser his firm was doing for a local shelter. He was far too calm for someone managing three silent auctions and a raffle.

And there was Peggy, of course. She was in a red dress that made her look like a warning sign, and her hair was slicked back like she meant business. She glanced at my sleeve the way you glance at a text you know you shouldn’t open.

We did the polite nod. She said, “Heard you finally got it done.” She tilted her head like a cat deciding whether to swat.

I said, “I did,” and left it there. It felt good to let the silence hold shape between us, like not filling every corner of a room.

Halfway through the night, something odd happened. A woman with a clipboard tapped the mic and announced a surprise: Mark was being recognized for organizing the entire event.

He looked stricken and then pleased, like someone had given him a cake with his name spelled right. He made a short, sweet speech and thanked everyone for being kind.

Peggy clapped hard enough to sting. Then she reached for the mic and asked if she could add something, and my stomach did a small twist because I knew that move.

She said, “Speaking of kindness, I just want to say how hard it can be when people try to copy your ideas.” She tossed her hair and smiled. “But I’m a big believer in forgiveness.”

The room made a noise like a chair scraping. It wasn’t quite a gasp, more like a collective eyebrow.

Before I could decide whether to leave or breathe, a man near the back raised his hand and said, “Copy what?” He said it like a math problem that needed numbers.

Peggy floundered for a beat, then gestured to her arm. “This,” she said. “I had a whole concept, and someone… mirrored it.”

Mark looked at me, then at her. He put a hand over the mic and said in a low voice I could hear because the room had gone quiet, “Peg, this isn’t the time.” He rarely used nicknames.

But it was already out. People were looking around, and a woman from Mark’s office, a no-nonsense person named Bev, said, “Isn’t that the cartoon dragon from that movie?” She peered. “My kid has it on a shirt.”

Laughter skittered across the carpet, then died. Peggy flushed, and her mouth tightened.

I hadn’t planned to say anything. I don’t like scenes, and I like other people’s pity even less. But something in me said, “Enough.”

I raised my hand and said, “I lied.” The mic found me, or maybe I found it, and my voice sounded steadier than I felt. “I told Peggy I wanted that design because I was tired of her poking at me.”

A few murmurs moved like fish. I kept going because it felt better to tell the truth than keep stitching up a story.

I said, “I shouldn’t have lied. It was small and childish. But she didn’t copy me by accident. She told our friend she was excited I would be upset.”

Peggy’s mouth opened. She looked more shocked than caught, like she’d found herself in a room with no doors. The red of her dress suddenly seemed loud.

Then came the twist I didn’t expect. The tattoo artist from her shop was there, because London is small when you’re trying not to make a fool of yourself. He called out, “I remember you.”

He stepped forward, a tall guy with a lopsided fringe and tattoos that looked old enough to have stories. He said, “You brought a picture of Haku and said, and I quote, ‘This will get under her skin.’”

A wave went through the crowd that felt like the sea hitting a breakwater. Peggy’s shoulders dropped.

She said, “Fine, okay. I did that.” She blew out a breath. “I was angry, and I wanted to win at something stupid.”

Mark took the mic back and said, “We all do stupid things. Tonight’s about raising money, not airing laundry.” He smiled carefully, not at anyone in particular. “Let’s get back to the raffle.”

People shuffled and talked louder, which is what you do when you want to give a scene a soft landing. Peggy disappeared to the bar, and I went to the bathroom to wash my face and check I hadn’t grown a second head.

In the mirror, I saw my dragon peeking from my sleeve where the cuff had slipped. The roses looked calm. I pressed my fingers over them and felt a quiet that I hadn’t had since before I made that lie.

When I came out, Peggy was waiting by the corridor, which I should’ve predicted. Angry people like corners.

She said, “You made me look ridiculous.” There wasn’t much heat to it, more weariness, like she’d run and finally stopped.

I said, “You made your own choices.” I softened it because we had both been stupid. “So did I. I’m sorry I lied.”

She stared at my arm like it was a window. She said, “I thought if I had the thing you wanted, I’d stop feeling like you were better.” She grimaced. “It didn’t work.”

I said nothing for a beat. I could feel the music from the main room through the floor, an old disco song about wanting someone back.

Then she said the last thing I expected. “I hate this tattoo,” she blurted. “Not because of the art. Because of why I got it. Every time I look at it, I feel petty.”

I nodded slowly. This was the other twist, the kind you only see when all the noise dies down. Sometimes the punishment is just living with the motive.

She asked, “Do you know someone who can cover it?” She said it like I held a key when really, I barely held my own mess together.

I thought of Mags, and the way she drew shapes that looked like breathing. I told Peggy yes, that I could ask.

She frowned. “Why would you help me after all that?” Her voice had smallness in it, which is heavy to carry.

“Because this stops with me,” I said. “I don’t want to be part of the reason you keep doing this to yourself.”

We exchanged numbers again like we hadn’t already saved them under names we sometimes didn’t like. I messaged Mags, who wrote back with a slot in six weeks and a note that said, “She brings tea.”

Over the next month, something softened around the edges. I posted a photo of my tattoo with a caption about my mum’s roses, and people wrote kind things that made my chest ache in a nice way. Peggy did not leave any cryptic comments.

She sent me a photo one day of her arm with washable marker lines all over it. She wrote, “Is it weird that I’m excited and sad?” I told her it wasn’t weird at all.

When the day came, I went with her. I sat in the chair and read a book while Mags drew on her skin, and every so often, Peggy and I talked about nothing. Weather, snacks, shows you put on when you don’t want to think.

Mags did something clever. She used the curl of Haku’s body and turned it into a ribbon of morning glory vines with tiny moths. She used the clouds and made them buds just about to open.

When it was over, Peggy stared at it for a long time. Then she cried like I had, quietly but unmistakably.

She said, “I don’t deserve this after everything,” and Mags said, “Art isn’t a reward. It’s a reset.”

We left the shop and bought chips wrapped in paper that leaked grease through to our fingers. We sat on the pebbles and watched a dog chase foam like it owed him money.

Peggy said, “I told Mark I was sorry.” She looked at the sea. “I also told him I thought I liked him because you liked him, which is gross and true.”

I snorted. “He’s very likeable,” I said. “Women around him act like birds seeing something shiny.”

She laughed for real. Then she said, “I thought I wanted to beat you, but I actually wanted to be your friend and didn’t know how to be normal about it.”

I felt the wind lift my hair a little. I felt a wall inside me sag and then sit down.

“You were mean,” I said. “But I wasn’t brave. I should’ve told you to back off instead of playing games.”

We ate in companionable silence for a while. The gulls did their gull thing, outraged at the concept of boundaries.

A week later, she sent me a text that said, “You were right about meaning being quiet.” She followed it with a photo of her arm under sunshine, moths glowing like tiny lanterns. I showed it to Rina, who sent back three heart emojis and one knife for the early days.

Mark called me from a train platform to tell me he was moving to Bristol for a new job. He sounded excited and sad, the way new things always feel when you’re kind.

Before he left, we had one last pub night. Peggy came and brought a pie she had baked herself, which was ridiculous and perfect. She apologized to the room in this awkward, honest way, and it landed.

We played cards and didn’t let her bully the rules, and she laughed and took a small step back from her old habit. People can change in half-inch increments you only notice later.

On the way home, I walked by the sea and thought about my mum again. The tattoo felt like a hand on my arm, and the roses looked like they were listening.

I realized the lie I told was a little act of fear. I could own that without letting it own me.

I also realized I didn’t need Peggy to like me for my dragon to mean anything. Some art is a conversation with people, but some is a conversation with the person you miss.

Months later, I saw Peggy at the farmer’s market buying tomatoes, hair up, arm bare. The moths caught the sun and looked like they were moving. She waved, and it wasn’t tight.

We chatted about nothing for a couple minutes. She mentioned she’d started volunteering once a month at Mark’s old shelter because the fundraiser had made her feel small in a way she wanted to grow out of.

That felt like the most honest twist of all. Karma isn’t lightning; sometimes it’s a plant you decide to water.

I still think about how easy it is to slip into petty, especially when someone else is petty first. It’s tempting to let a lie feel like a shortcut to safety.

But safety is knowing your own reasons and standing in them anyway. The dragon on my arm doesn’t protect me from pettiness; it just reminds me I can choose something better.

Here’s the lesson I keep: envy doesn’t fill the hollow; it just makes it echo. Meaning is quiet and patient, and it waits for you to stop shouting long enough to hear it.

If you’ve ever dealt with a Peggy, this is your nudge to set a boundary and do the thing that’s yours. And if you’ve ever been the Peggy, this is your sign you can reset the canvas.

Share this if it hit a nerve, and drop a like so more folks see it. Maybe it’ll be the small, quiet thing someone needs today.