Just one phrase: what the wife answered to her husband's request for help, reminding him of his own rules

He looked at me, and something akin to madness splashed in his eyes. He couldn't believe that all this was happening in reality.

— And yes, about the rent. — I paused so that my next blow would be as precise as possible. — You made a slight mistake in calculations there. I never paid half. I always paid for this apartment fully.

He frowned uncomprehendingly.

— This apartment is my property, Denis. I inherited it from my grandmother even before our marriage. So this is my house, and my rules apply in my house. And my separate budget.

I saw the last hope dying in his eyes. He understood everything.

— You have a week to pack your things and get out of here. — My voice became hard as steel. — If in a week you are still here, your things will be on the stairwell. Is that clear?

He nodded silently, lowering his head. Crushed, destroyed.

I stuck my hand into the pocket of my new coat and took out the keys. His BMW keys, which the bank had sent by mail along with the confiscation notice. A useless piece of metal. I walked over and threw them on the floor next to him. They clinked against the parquet.

— Here, take them. You can sell them as a keychain, maybe it will be enough for food for the first time.

This was the last, most cruel thing. I turned around, took the suitcase handle, and walked to the exit. I didn't look back. I opened the door, stepped onto the landing, and closed it behind me. The loud click of the lock sounded like a gunshot. A shot that put an end to my past life. Ahead was the airport, the ocean, and freedom. And behind, in my former apartment, a man remained sitting on the floor who had destroyed everything he had with his own hands. And I didn't feel sorry for him. Not at all.