Marit Arnt walked into her apartment after her night shift and froze. Her mother-in-law was dragging her mother across the floor by her hair toward the exit, while her husband kicked at the belongings scattered around her. “Get out of here for good,” he shouted. “From now on, my mother lives here, and that’s final.
”
With shaking hands, Marit called her father. Less than ten minutes later, her husband and mother-in-law were thrown out of the apartment headfirst. Marit had always known life wasn’t a fairy tale. She learned that at nine years old, when her father came home from the factory, sat down at the kitchen table, and said, “Child, Mama is seriously ill.
From now on, you and I have to get her through this. ”
And they did. Five years of chemotherapy, endless hospital stays, hope mixed with disappointment. Her mother survived but was left permanently damaged, her heart weakened by the heavy medication.
Marit never complained. She didn’t even know how to complain. Her father Anska, a former automotive master mechanic who had worked his whole life at a large plant, had drilled one simple truth into her: “If you fall, get back up. If it hurts, endure.
If someone insults you, I’ll deal with them, but never whine. ”
Marit didn’t whine. She studied food technology at a state technical college, not because it was her dream but because it had a dormitory and she didn’t want to be a burden. She graduated with honors and took a position as shift supervisor at a large bakery, working night shifts, standing by hot ovens, and checking quality constantly.
The pay was good and secure, which was the most valuable thing in those years when factories were closing and people waited months for wages. She met Gerion by chance at twenty-seven. A tall man with dark hair, an expensive coat, and a bouquet of white roses stood at the factory gate. She thought he was there for someone else, but he walked up to her, handed her the flowers, and said, “I’m Gerion.
I work at the city administration. I saw you a week ago when you submitted documents. I couldn’t forget you. Would you have dinner with me?
”
She agreed. He was attractive, had a steady job, good manners, wasn’t an alcoholic, wasn’t married, and wasn’t boring. At least that’s how it seemed. The first six months felt like a movie.
Gerion took her to fine restaurants, gave her gifts, and introduced her to his friends. His mother, Gerinde, kissed Marit on both cheeks the first time they met and called her “dear daughter. ” Marit melted. She had no children of her own, and this maternal affection warmed her soul.
After eight months, Gerion proposed. The ring was modest, as he was still starting his career, but Marit didn’t care. She looked at him and thought, “Here it is. Happiness.
Finally. ”
The wedding was simple, no luxury. Marit didn’t want unnecessary expenses. Gerinde pursed her lips but stayed silent.
Marit paid no attention to that at the time. That was a mistake. The newlyweds lived in a small one-room rental on the outskirts. Marit worked double shifts and saved for a down payment.
Gerion got a modest position, but with room to grow. Two years later, they had enough for a three-room apartment in a new building on the seventh floor, overlooking the city park. Marit stood at the window, looked down at the trees, and cried with joy. Finally, her own place.
The mortgage was taken out in both names. Marit insisted on that. It was only fair. She took extra shifts and weekends, saving wherever she could.
Five years later, they paid off the loan early. Five years without vacations, without new clothes, without movie nights. But it was worth it. At least she thought so.
The first warning sign came when the mortgage was paid. Marit suggested celebrating with their families, a cake, inviting her parents. Gerion frowned without looking up from his phone. “What do I want with your parents?
Your mother just complains about her health, and your father sits there silent like an owl. That’s boring. Let’s celebrate with my mother instead. At least she can cook.
”
Marit swallowed the insult. It was the first time in seven years of marriage that he had openly humiliated her family, but she blamed fatigue. He was working a lot lately. Stress, nerves.
It happens. But that was just the beginning. Gerinde started visiting more often, first weekends, then a week, then two. She criticized everything: how Marit cooked, cleaned, dressed, spoke.
“My God, Marit, do you go to work looking like that? ” she’d say, eyeing the factory clothes. “You look like a vagabond. No wonder Gerion barely looks at you anymore.
”
Marit endured it. That’s just how mothers-in-law are. You have to learn to get along. Her own mother had endured years of criticism from her grandmother.
It was normal. But then Gerinde crossed the line. Eight years after the wedding, Marit’s mother Almut had a mild stroke and deteriorated badly. She couldn’t live alone, and Marit’s father still worked, a sixty-three-year-old security guard on a parking lot just to make ends meet.
Marit suggested bringing her mother to stay until she recovered. Gerion shrugged. “Fine, as long as she doesn’t bother me. ”
Almut moved into the small room that had been Gerion’s study.
She tried to be invisible, cooking when Marit was at work, cleaning, watering flowers, never complaining. Marit looked at her mother, thin and pale, hands trembling, and her heart ached. But she was alive. That was what mattered.
Gerinde appeared a week later, unannounced as always, opening the door with her own key. She froze at the threshold. “What is this? Gerion, why is this woman in my room?
”
Marit came out. “Gerinde, this is my mother. She’ll be staying with us temporarily until she’s better. ”
“Temporarily?
” Gerinde turned red with anger. “She’ll stay forever. I know these types. They crawl in like vermin and you never get rid of them.
Gerion, do you hear what’s happening here? ”
Gerion came out drying his hands. “Mama, calm down. It’s only for a while.
”
“Only for a while! I come to visit my son and some strange old woman is in my room. Where am I supposed to sleep? On the floor?
”
Marit clenched her fists. “Gerinde, this apartment belongs to Gerion and me. My mother has every right to be here. If you don’t like it, there are plenty of hotels in the city.
”
The silence in the hallway was deafening. Gerinde stared at her as if she’d been slapped. “What did you say? You’re throwing me out of my son’s apartment?
”
Gerion looked at his wife, then his mother, and hesitated. Marit saw him weighing the options. Then he made his choice. “Marit, apologize to Mama.
”
“Why? Because I defended my own mother? ”
“Because of your insolence. Apologize.
”
Marit felt something inside her crack, a small fissure that would become a chasm. “I won’t apologize,” she said. She turned and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. That night, Gerion slept on the couch next to his mother, who had made a show of settling into the armchair.
In the morning, Gerinde left without a word. From that day on, Gerion changed. He became cold and distant. He stopped talking to Marit at dinner, stopped asking about her day.
He came home late, left early, disappeared on weekends. When she tried to talk, he waved her off. “It’s fine. Just tired.
Lots of work. ”
One month passed, then two. Gerinde called every day. Marit heard snippets of their conversations: “Yes, Mama.
No, she hasn’t changed. Of course I love you more than anyone. ”
Then came a Tuesday that turned everything upside down. Marit came home after a night shift.
Her mother was still sleeping. Gerion had already left. On the kitchen table was a note: “Coming home late. Don’t wait up.
”
After a shower, she decided to tidy up. She entered the room where her mother slept and wiped the windowsill, then opened the closet. On the top shelf, behind a stack of old magazines, lay a blue plastic folder that hadn’t been there before. She opened it.
Documents. Bank statements. Contracts. Printouts from a real estate portal.
It was paperwork for the purchase of an apartment, a two-room unit in a new development on the other side of the city. Buyer: Gerinde Arnt. Purchase price: 148,000 euros. She turned the page.
The next document was a statement from their joint savings account, the one they’d both saved into for years. For a rainy day, Gerion always said. For the future of our children, Marit had dreamed. The balance: 2,000 euros.
And next to it: cash withdrawal, 52,000 euros. All their savings. Ten years of work. Marit sank onto the edge of her mother’s bed.
Her legs wouldn’t hold her. One thought hammered in her head: He stole the money. He stole our money and bought his mother an apartment. Her mother woke.
“Marit? What’s wrong? You’re so pale. ”
“Nothing.
Sleep, Mama. Everything is fine. ”
It wasn’t fine at all. Marit sat in the kitchen until evening, staring at the documents, unable to eat or sleep.
When Gerion came home, she met him in the hallway. “We need to talk,” she said, holding out the folder. He glanced at it. His face didn’t change.
No shame, no remorse. “Where did you find that? ”
“You stole our money. You bought your mother an apartment with it.
”
“Our money? ” He smiled condescendingly. “Who earns more here? Me, with your bakery job?
That’s just pocket change. ”
“We saved it together. Both of us. ”
“Marit, stop living in a fairy tale.
My mother was without a place to live. Her ex-husband put her out after the divorce. I had to help her. It’s my duty.
”
“You couldn’t have asked me? ”
“Ask you? So you could make a scene and say no? No, thank you.
I did what I thought was necessary. ”
She looked at this man and no longer recognized him. “I’m filing for divorce. ”
He shrugged.
“Do that. But keep in mind: this apartment is in my name. ” He pulled a folded sheet from his jacket pocket. “Gift agreement.
You signed over your share three weeks ago. Here’s your signature. ”
Marit snatched the document. A notarized contract, supposedly her voluntary transfer of her share to her husband.
The date was clear. The signature beneath was unmistakably hers in appearance. She knew every curl of her own handwriting. But on that date, she had been working a double shift.
There had been a breakdown at the factory. “This is forged,” she whispered. “You faked my signature. ”
“Prove it,” he smiled.
“The notary will confirm it’s genuine. I prepared, you know. ”
Marit remembered. Over the past six months, Gerion had constantly asked her to sign things: receipts, delivery confirmations, forms for the housing management.
She signed without looking. She trusted him. And he had been collecting samples of her signature, practicing how to copy it. “You’re scum,” she said quietly.
“I’m practical,” he replied, pocketing the document. “And you, Marit, are naive. But never mind. Life will teach you.
”
He walked past her into the room and closed the door. Marit stood in the hallway. The world she’d spent ten years building collapsed in a single moment. He had stolen her money, stolen her apartment, stolen her trust in people.
But she didn’t cry. Instead, a cold, heavy anger rose up in her, the kind her father had spoken of: “If someone hits you, hit back. But hit smart. ”
She checked the notary’s name on the contract: Friederike Hempel.
It was familiar. Gerinde’s niece. At the wedding years ago, Gerinde had introduced her: “My niece, Friederike. She’s studying law.
Soon she’ll be a notary. Very clever, just like me. ”
Of course. A family affair.
She thought she had no way out. But her father had also taught her: an Arnt never gives up. She called her father. “Papa, I need your help.
Urgently. ”
Anska arrived an hour later. He listened in silence, his face hardening with each word. “I’ll kill the bastard,” he said when she finished.
“No. You’ll go to prison, and they’ll have won. We have to do this legally. ”
She went to the police and filed a report for fraud and forgery.
The officer took the papers with a sour face. “Family matters. Try to sort it out among yourselves. ”
She consulted one lawyer, then another, then a third.
They all said the same thing: handwriting analysis was complicated, and if the forgery was well done, it was nearly impossible to prove. And it would require money. Money Gerion had just stolen. She was trapped.
Gerion knew it. He walked around the apartment as if he owned it, which he technically did now. Every day he called his mother: “Everything is going according to plan. Soon we’ll throw her and her little mother out.
”
Marit heard him. He didn’t even bother hiding it anymore. He wanted her to know she had lost. But she wasn’t defeated.
She was a cornered animal, gathering herself for the final leap. One evening, while Gerion was in the shower, Marit entered his study. His laptop sat on the desk. She knew the password; he’d never changed it, too confident that she had nothing worth finding.
She opened his email and scrolled through dozens of messages with Friederike Hempel. The plan. The bribes. Deadlines.
Scans of Marit’s signature samples. The final draft of the gift agreement, with Friederike’s note: “Everything is ready. Push it through. ”
With shaking hands, Marit took screenshots.
Ten. Twenty. Thirty. She emailed them to herself, then deleted the traces.
When Gerion came out of the shower, she was sitting on the couch with a book, her face calm. Now she had proof. Real, undeniable proof. But she bided her time.
One wrong step and he’d destroy the evidence. Her mother wasn’t even in their old room anymore; Gerion had moved her to the former bedroom, and Marit slept on the couch. He’d even told her, in a moment of cruelty, that Almut couldn’t go back to the study. Then, at dinner, Gerion announced without looking at her: “Mama is moving in.
Here. Until her apartment is finished. ”
“And my mother? ” Marit asked quietly.
“Time for her to go. I’m the owner here, and I decide who lives in this apartment. ”
Marit nodded and kept eating. Three days later, Gerinde arrived with suitcases and boxes.
She marched straight to the room where Almut was resting and announced, “This is my room now. Pack your things and get out. I’m giving you an hour. ”
Almut, who was swallowing her medications, started and clutched her chest.
Marit was at work, her last night shift before a few days off. She had arranged it deliberately, knowing what was coming. Her phone rang at five in the morning. Her mother’s number.
“Marit, come quickly. They’re throwing me out. ” The line cut. Marit left everything and raced home.
The forty-minute taxi ride felt like an eternity. She ran up to the seventh floor, panting, and saw her mother’s belongings scattered on the landing: a bag of clothes, a box of medicine, an old photo album. The apartment door stood wide open. Screams echoed from inside.
She stepped over the threshold and froze. Her mother-in-law was dragging Almut by the hair toward the door again. Almut, in an old nightgown, barefoot, tried to cling to the doorframe but her fingers slipped. Tears streamed down her face.
Gerion stood by, kicking at the scattered items. “Get out of here! ” he screamed. “From now on, my mother lives here!
We’re done with both of you! ”
Gerinde yanked so hard that Almut cried out. A patch of gray hair came away in her fist. “Move it!
Go find yourself a home. Enough living off others. ”
Marit stood at the threshold. Time seemed to slow.
She saw everything: her mother’s trembling hands, her husband’s wild eyes, the cruelty etched into her mother-in-law’s face. Something clicked inside her. The cold calculation she’d been cultivating gave way to something older, more primitive. But Marit didn’t lunge.
Her father had taught her better. She stepped back onto the landing, pulled her key out, and slammed the door shut. The lock clicked, she turned the key twice, sealing them all inside. With shaking hands, she called her father.
“Papa, come now. They’re attacking Mama. They’re throwing her out. ”
“I’m on my way,” he said, and hung up.
Behind the door, Gerion pounded the metal, screaming, “Open up! This is my apartment! I’ll call the police! I’ll have you arrested!
”
Marit leaned against the cold hallway wall. She could hear her mother sobbing inside. She let the pounding continue, knowing her father would arrive soon. He lived twenty minutes away, but at this hour, with empty streets, he made it in twelve.
Marit heard the building’s main door slam and his heavy footsteps on the stairs. He appeared, jacket thrown over a t-shirt, unshaven, eyes red from lack of sleep. But there was something burning in those eyes. “Open it,” he said simply.
Marit turned the key. The door flew open. Gerion was right behind it, ready to lunge at his wife, but instead he found himself face to face with his father-in-law. He froze for a fraction of a second.
That was enough. Anska grabbed his raised arm and slammed him against the hallway wall. Gerion crumpled to the floor, gasping like a fish. Gerinde, still holding Marit’s mother by the hair, shrieked and jumped back, but Anska was already moving.
He grabbed the collar of her expensive cashmere coat and flung her toward the kitchen. She hit her hip against a cabinet, flailed, and fell to the floor. Immediately she began screaming theatrically for the whole building: “They’re killing me! Call the police!
My heart! My heart! ” The older woman writhed on the floor, feigning a heart attack. Marit rushed to her mother.
Almut sat on the floor, clutching a crumpled towel, shaking violently, her lips blue. “Mama, I’m here. Papa’s here. No one will hurt you again.
” But Almut didn’t respond; her eyes were empty, focused on something far away. “She needs to be in the hospital,” Marit told her father. Anska started to call an ambulance, but Gerion had already dialed. “Police, urgent!
We’ve been attacked! Severe injuries! These people are criminals! ”
Gerinde, emboldened, howled louder.
Between sobs, she caught her son’s eye and gave him a look of acknowledgment, as if to say, “Well done, son. ”
The police arrived first, then the medics. The paramedics split, one attending to Almut, the other tending to Gerinde, who kept performing. A young officer looked over the scene: scattered belongings, a dented wall, an overturned table.
“Who can explain this? ” he asked. Gerion stepped forward, playing the victim, showing a red mark on his side. “This is my father-in-law.
He broke into my apartment and assaulted me and my elderly mother. I demand he be arrested. ”
Gerinde grabbed the officer’s sleeve. “He threw me into the wall!
I have high blood pressure! Arrest this criminal! ”
The officer turned to Marit. She stood up.
“This is my apartment. I came home from work and found them dragging my sick mother out by her hair. ”
The doctor attending to Almut interrupted. “I can confirm signs of force.
There’s a bald patch where she had her hair pulled, bruises on her arms, and the beginning of a hypertensive crisis. She needs hospitalization. ”
The officer frowned. “So, you say they tried to evict your mother, so you called your father to intervene?
”
“No,” Gerion interjected. “We merely asked his mother-in-law to free up the room, and she called this thug to beat us. ”
The officer raised a hand. “We’ll sort this out.
Who owns the apartment? ”
Gerion smiled and produced a folded document. “I do. ”
The officer looked at it, checked his tablet, and his face hardened.
“According to the land register, Mr. Gerion Arnt is the sole owner of this property, based on a gift agreement entered three weeks ago. ”
“It’s a forgery! ” Marit cried.
“I never signed that. He stole my signature. ”
The officer gave her a cold look. “The contract is notarized.
If you dispute its authenticity, that’s a civil matter. As it stands now, you are on someone else’s property without the owner’s permission. ”
“I live here! This is my home!
”
“It was your home,” Gerion said with a hateful smile. “Now it belongs to me, and I haven’t given you permission to be here. ”
Anska stepped forward, fists clenched, but Marit held her father back. “Papa, no.
That’s exactly what they want. ”
The officer nodded at his colleague. “Take their particulars. Assault and battery and coercion.
” He turned to Anska. “You’re coming with us. ”
Gerinde, miraculously healed of all her injuries, smoothed her hair and smiled triumphantly. The ambulance team lifted Almut, weak and helpless, onto a stretcher.
Marit wanted to go with her, but the officer shook his head. “You’re coming to the station too. You need to give a statement. ”
Later that night, Marit found herself in an interrogation room smelling of stale coffee.
She told them everything: the stolen money, the forged signature, the correspondence she’d found. The investigator, a heavyset man with tired eyes, listened without much interest. “So you claim your husband forged your signature? ”
“Yes, I have proof.
I have screenshots of his emails with the notary. ”
“Screenshots? ” He snorted. “That’s unauthorized access to another person’s communications.
Do you know what that means? Up to two years in prison. ”
“But he stole my apartment! ”
“Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.
A judge will decide. Right now we have a notarized document and a complaint from your husband about assault. ”
Marit felt the ground give way beneath her. They’d thought of everything.
Her father was released pending trial, but the assault charge was now active. “Tell your father,” the investigator said, “that if he withdraws his complaint and signs a paper stating everything was voluntary, your husband has agreed to drop his charges. Consider it. Prison or freedom.
Your choice. ”
Outside, the sun was shining mockingly. Her father lit a cigarette, something he only did when he was nervous. “Forgive me, child.
I brought all this on you. ”
“You defended Mama. Without you, they would have thrown her into the street. ”
“And now they’re throwing her out anyway, and putting me in jail to boot.
”
They drove to the hospital. Almut lay in a ward with tubes and monitors. Her speech was slurred, a consequence of the blood pressure spike. “Marit,” she whispered.
“Forgive me. ”
“For what, Mama? ”
“For everything. If I hadn’t come, if I wasn’t sick…”
“Stop.
You have nothing to apologize for. They are to blame. ”
In the hallway, Marit’s phone buzzed. A message from Gerion: “You have two days to collect your things.
After that, I’m throwing them all out. Tell your father: if he withdraws his complaint and signs that everything was voluntary, I’ll withdraw mine. Prison or freedom. You choose.
”
Marit read it twice. Blackmail. She should have felt despair, but instead she felt a cold, sharp anger. They thought they had won.
They had no idea who they were dealing with. She opened her email and found the message she’d sent herself weeks ago. Thirty-two screenshots. Damning proof.
She’d been saving it for the final move. This was it. She called the lawyer a colleague had recommended: Dr. Zander, a specialist in complicated cases.
“I need an urgent consultation. They stole my apartment by forging my signature, but I have proof. ”
“What kind of proof? ”
“I have my husband’s correspondence with the notary.
The plan. The timeline. The payment. ”
“Interesting,” the lawyer said.
“Come by. I’ll send you the address. ”
Marit put her phone away and looked at her father. “I know what to do, but I need time.
Two days. Can you take Mama in when she’s released? ”
“Of course. And you?
”
“I’m going to fight. ”
Anska looked at her for a long moment, and something glimmered in his eyes. Pride. “Good,” he said.
“Show them, child. ”
Dr. Zander wasn’t what she’d expected. He was older, gray-bearded, with a keen, thoughtful gaze, more like a professor than a slick lawyer.
He listened to her story without interruption, taking notes. When she finished, he took his time scrolling through the screenshots. “Interesting,” he said at last. “Very interesting.
Your husband is a first-class idiot. He left a digital trail, emails, scans, data. He thought he was smarter than everyone. In doing so, he signed his own conviction.
”
He leaned back. “But there’s a problem. ”
“What? ”
“These screenshots were obtained without his knowledge.
A judge could reject them as evidence. ”
“So they’re useless? ”
“I didn’t say that. I said it’s a problem.
Problems can be solved. ” He paused. “Does the notary, Friederike Hempel, know that you know she’s involved? ”
“Yes.
I tried to get her to confess, but she kicked me out. ”
“So she’s been warned. But these people have a weakness: fear. They fear consequences more than they desire money, if you apply the right pressure.
” He looked at her steadily. “Are you willing to take a risk? ”
“What kind of risk? ”
“All in.
If my plan works, you get the apartment back and your husband goes to prison. If it doesn’t, you might end up behind bars yourself. ”
Marit didn’t hesitate. “I’m in.
”
Dr. Zander outlined the plan, which was as simple as it was dangerous. Friederike was the niece of the mother-in-law. She did it for family, not for large sums.
If she smelled trouble, she’d abandon the scheme to save her own skin. Marit would offer her a deal: testify against Gerion, and Marit would forget her involvement. If she refused, Plan B would be to go straight to the prosecutor with everything, including information about Gerion’s other criminal scheme. Before the meeting with Friederike, Marit decided to stop by the apartment to collect some personal documents.
She arrived in the evening. Lights were on. She still had a key and was still officially registered there. She climbed to the seventh floor and unlocked the door.
Inside the living room, stretched out on the sofa she and Gerion had picked out together, sat a young woman, no older than twenty-five, blonde with heavy makeup and long fingernails. She was wearing Marit’s silk robe, the one her mother had given her for her last birthday. “Ah, you’re here,” the woman said, smiling. “Gerion said you might stop by.
Your stuff is in bags in the hallway. Feel free to take it. ”
“Who are you? ” Marit asked.
“I’m Verena. Gerion’s fiancée. Well, soon to be, once you finally sign the divorce papers. ”
Gerion came out of the bedroom, wearing jogging pants, shirtless, hair wet from the shower.
He didn’t flinch at seeing her. “Ah, you. Take your stuff and go. And don’t forget, tomorrow’s the last day.
After that, I’m throwing everything away. ”
Marit looked at this man she’d lived with for ten years, at this girl lounging on her sofa in her robe, and suddenly she understood. He had been planning this for years. He’d found a mistress, decided to start a new life, and needed to get rid of the old one.
The money, the forged signature, the apartment: it wasn’t greed. It was a clean sweep. “How long have you been with her? ” she asked quietly.
“Oh, about three years now,” he said casually. “Since about the time your dear mother moved in. ”
Three years. Three years of lies.
Eating her food, sleeping in her bed, letting her wash his shirts, all while planning to steal everything. Verena giggled. “Don’t take it so hard. I’m sure you’ll find someone your own age.
Maybe a widower. ”
Slowly, Marit turned to her. “Take off my robe. ”
“Excuse me?
”
“The robe. Take it off. It belongs to me. ”
Verena jumped up, outraged.
“Gerion, she’s threatening me! ”
“Marit, don’t make a scene,” Gerion said bored. “Take your bags and go. And for the record, I bought her that robe.
”
He was lying. She knew it. He lied without flinching, just as he had all those years. Silently, she went to the hallway and opened one of the trash bags.
Her clothes, crushed together with papers and paperwork. She found a folder with her certificates, medical records, old contracts. At the bottom, she found a small box with her mother’s brooch, a family heirloom. And then she found a photo.
Her and Gerion on their wedding day. Young, happy, in love. Marit in a white dress, Gerion in a suit, both smiling. Marit looked at the photo for a long second, then carefully tore it in two and dropped it back into the bag.
She left without another word. Downstairs, she called Dr. Zander. “There’s new information.
He has a mistress living in the apartment. Does that change anything? ”
“Does it ever,” he replied. “That’s a motive.
Come by early tomorrow. We have work to do. ”
The next morning, Dr. Zander laid out the full picture.
“I did some digging. Your husband works at the municipal utilities. Deputy head. Official salary: 3,800 euros gross.
Yet in the last year, he bought a car for 45,000 euros, paid for a near-20,000-euro renovation of his mother’s apartment, and regularly withdraws large sums of cash. Where’s the money coming from? ”
He slid a paper across the desk. “His department has been handing out contracts for landscape maintenance and city greening for three years.
Substantial sums: 200,000 to 300,000 annually. Always the same contractor: Ökogrün. Registered under Verena’s name. Your mistress.
Classic kickback scheme. He pushes the contracts through, his girlfriend pockets the money, they split it. ”
“That’s a crime,” Marit said. “So is fraud and embezzlement.
Up to ten years in prison. ” He smiled. “And that changes everything. Now we have leverage he isn’t expecting.
”
“What do we do? ”
“First, we visit Friederike. We offer her the deal. She testifies about the forgery, and we don’t mention her name in the corruption complaint.
If she refuses, we go to the prosecutor with everything, and she’ll fall with her cousin. ”
“It’s a risk,” Marit said. “Without risk, there’s no victory. Your choice.
”
She looked at him. “Let’s go. ”
Friederike was thin and pale, with dark rings under her eyes, gripping the arms of her chair when she saw them. Her voice trembled.
“What do you want? I’ve told you, I don’t know anything. ”
“Friederike,” Marit said calmly, almost kindly. “I know you notarized a false contract.
You know I know. The only question is what we do about it. ”
She explained the deal: testify, and Marit would keep her name out of the corruption complaint. She put the Ökogrün printout on the desk.
“Your cousin isn’t just stealing apartments. He’s been splitting the city budget with his girlfriend. When the investigators come, and they will come, they’ll find this contract. And when they do, you’ll fall with him.
Not as a witness, but as an accomplice. ”
Friederike stared at the paper. Her hands shook. “I didn’t know… I didn’t think he would… He’s family…”
“He is,” Marit said.
“And he’ll drag you down with him, if you let him. ”
The silence in the office was heavy. Finally, Friederike whispered, “What do I have to do? ”
Marit nodded to Dr.
Zander, who placed a recorder on the desk. Friederike told them everything: how Gerion had come to her with the already-signed contract, asking her to notarize it without asking questions; how he’d promised it was all agreed; how Gerinde had called and said they needed to stick together because “the wife had gotten insolent. ”
She described how she’d known the signature was too smooth, too perfect, but closed her eyes anyway. She described the envelope with 500 euros.
She described not sleeping afterward. After the recording, Dr. Zander handed her paper. “Now write it all down, by hand, dated and signed.
”
Friederike took the pen, hands trembling, and wrote page after page. When she finished, she closed her eyes. “I’m ruined. ”
“Your aunt will be busy with her own problems soon,” Marit said.
“She won’t have time for you. ”
They took the statement to the prosecutor’s office that same day. The prosecutor, a sharp-eyed young man, listened as they laid out the full case: property fraud, forgery, embezzlement from a municipal operation, all tied to one man. “These allegations are serious,” he said, examining the documents.
“But these screenshots were obtained illegally. On their own, they’re not admissible. However, they’re a useful lead. And this notary’s confession, if she confirms it in writing, will open proceedings.
”
“She’ll confirm it,” Dr. Zander said confidently. “She’s terrified. She’ll do anything to stay out of prison.
”
The prosecutor nodded. “I’m taking the case. But I warn you, this will take time. And your father’s assault case,” he added to Marit.
“If we confirm that your husband and his mother did attack your mother first, your father’s actions could be classified as self-defense. But that needs to be proved. ”
Marit left the building with cautious hope. On her phone, a message from Gerion: “Time’s up.
Your stuff is in the garbage bin, and tell your father to prepare for trial. ”
She read it and smiled coldly. He didn’t know. The next two weeks were a purgatory of waiting.
Marit lived with her father, worked at the bakery, visited her mother every day. Almut was improving. The blood pressure was stabilizing, speech was coming back. But the fear in her eyes lingered.
“Is it worth it, child? ” she asked. “Won’t it be easier to just give up? ”
“We have the law on our side,” Marit said.
“And I’m not backing down. ”
Meanwhile, Gerion’s life continued as if nothing was wrong. He went to work, went out with friends, posted photos from expensive restaurants. In one photo, he was embracing Verena under palm trees.
The caption read: “Happiness exists. ”
Marit looked at the photo and waited. The call came on a Friday afternoon. “It worked,” Dr.
Zander said, with barely concealed triumph in his voice. “The prosecutor’s office has opened a case for fraud, forgery, and abuse of office. Your husband has been summoned for questioning. He thinks it’s a routine check, but tomorrow they’ll search his workplace and the apartment.
”
And so they did. On Saturday morning, Marit learned from the same neighbor who had testified against her father that police cars were surrounding the building, causing Gerion to be taken away in handcuffs. His mother was taken by ambulance with some heart issue. Allegedly genuine this time.
Gerion was held for forty-eight hours, then released pending trial, prohibited from leaving the city and suspended from his job. He was fired that same day. Verena vanished when she learned about Ökogrün’s frozen accounts. Someone said she’d fled to relatives in another city.
A week later, the prosecutor called Marit. “Your husband has agreed to a deal,” he explained. “He confessed everything: the forged signature, the Ökogrün scheme. He named all his accomplices.
He was facing up to ten years. With the deal, he’ll get no more than four. ”
“Why would he confess? ”
“Mercy.
He chose the lesser evil. ”
Marit processed this. “What does that mean for me? ”
“The gift agreement will be declared null and void.
The apartment automatically reverts to your ownership by court order. ”
Marit closed her eyes. Her apartment. The one she’d worked double shifts for, saved up for, given up vacations and pleasures for.
It was hers again. “And the money? The 52,000? ”
The prosecutor sighed.
“That’s more complicated. The apartment he bought for his mother was purchased with that money, but it’s registered in her name. Recovering those funds will require a separate civil action. She could claim she didn’t know where the money came from.
”
“She knew everything,” Marit said. “She organized it all. ”
“Her son is covering for her,” the prosecutor said. “He claims it was all his idea.
She’s been charged as a witness, not a co-conspirator. She stood up and caused a scene at her hearing. Denied everything. Ended up in the hospital with a real hypertensive crisis afterward.
”
Marit smiled thinly. “The Lord sees everything. ”
The trial took place in late April. Marit sat in the courtroom, watching Gerion be led in.
He’d changed: thinner, older, eyes haunted. His expensive suit was gone, replaced by plain clothing. He never looked at her during the entire proceedings. The verdict took an hour.
Guilty of fraud. Guilty of forgery. Guilty of embezzlement. Four years in prison.
As the judge spoke, Gerinde, sitting in the front row, screamed and clutched her chest. They led her out, supported by an aide. Gerion finally looked at Marit. His eyes were full of hate.
“You’ll pay for this,” he whispered as they led him away. “I’ll get out, and then you’ll pay. ”
Marit said nothing. She just watched the door close behind him.
The rest played out slowly. The apartment was returned to her, just as promised. The civil courts recovered only 18,000 of the 52,000 euros. The rest was embedded in Gerinde’s apartment, which the court refused to acknowledge as financed by stolen money.
Gerinde never fully recovered from the blow. Six months after her son’s trial, she suffered a severe stroke. She lived, but was left paralyzed on one side, unable to speak clearly. Now she was cared for by a nurse, paid for out of her own pension.
Marit learned this from the same neighbor who had once testified against her father. Now that neighbor was sweetness itself: “Marit, how well you handled it. That’s how you deal with those people. I always knew your husband was scum.
”
Marit listened in silence. She felt no joy, no satisfaction. Just a deep, heavy exhaustion. The proceedings against her father were dropped for lack of a crime.
Self-defense. Anska celebrated with a bottle of good brandy and a long conversation with his daughter. “I was always afraid you were too soft,” he said. “That they’d crush you.
But you were stronger than me. Stronger than all of us. ”
“I’m not strong, Papa,” Marit said. “I just don’t know how to give up.
You taught me that. ”
He looked at her for a long time. “I’m proud of you, child. Very proud.
”
The divorce papers came in the summer. Marit signed without reading them. It was just a formality. She left the courthouse, and the sun was shining.
In the courtyard, roses bloomed. White roses, just like the ones Gerion had waited with at the factory gate so many years ago. Marit looked at them and thought about how strange life was. How someone who looked like a prince could turn out to be a monster.
How a home that was a dream could become a prison. How love could become hate, trust betrayal. But she had stood. She hadn’t broken.
She hadn’t bent. She’d walked through hell and come out the other side. Her phone buzzed. A message from a colleague: “Marit, where are you?
We bought cake. We’re celebrating your divorce. Hurry. ”
Marit smiled.
A real smile, from deep within. She put her phone away, walked down the steps, and moved toward her new life. A life with no room for lies, betrayal, or fear. Just her, and the people she loved.
And that was enough.
