That night, I acted completely normal while observing him. He only coughed when I entered the room. The next morning, he casually mentioned, “You might have to sign some paperwork for the debt restructuring on Friday.” “Of course,” I replied—even though I had already scheduled an appointment with a specialist lawyer for real estate law.
On Thursday, my lawyer helped me file an objection to the disposition of the marital home, which prevented any unilateral transfer of the house.
Friday morning, Gero dressed smartly—nothing like a sick man. “I’m going to the office,” he said. “I’ll come with you,” I replied.
At the clerk’s counter, he confidently slid the document forward. The official paused. “Here is a registered objection to the protection of the marital home. We need to review this.” Gero turned to me, barely able to contain his anger. “What did you do?” “I protected myself.”
In the head of the department’s office, he called it “routine financial planning.” When asked if I had given my consent, I said firmly, “No.” He claimed my signature was on it. “If my signature is there, it’s forged,” I replied, placing the printed bank statements and the company documents on the desk. The transfer was stopped.
Moments later, his cell phone rang. I heard a woman say, “I’m downstairs. Tell me it’s done.”
A tall woman in a black coat stood near the entrance, looking around. She approached us, anger flashing in her face. “I’m his wife,” I said before Gero could speak. She turned sharply on him. “You used my email address for her bank account?” He had no answer.
As the voices grew louder, security intervened. Her name was Jordan Rische. She stormed off angrily. I said calmly to Gero, “From now on, we’ll only talk through lawyers.”
That afternoon, I met with a family lawyer who applied for a temporary injunction to grant me sole use of the marital home and restrict any transfer of assets. That same evening, the court granted the application.
The next morning, I returned to the house with a bailiff and a locksmith. Gero opened the door, beside himself with rage. “This is insane,” he said. The bailiff handed him the order. He tried to convince me that I had misunderstood everything. “You drew up a deed of transfer without my consent and redirected bank notifications,” I replied calmly. “I only react to documented facts.”
The locksmith changed the locks while Gero packed his belongings. “This isn’t over yet,” he muttered. “Your plan for this Friday certainly is,” I replied quietly.
As he drove away, silence finally returned to the house. My phone buzzed—confirmation that our bank account had been blocked and registered for dual control.
I stood in the living room, staring at the folded gray blanket. The play was over. I didn’t feel like a winner. But I felt composed. And being composed was enough to start over.
