3. The Seller

A tall man in his fifties opened the door. Polished but kind-eyed.

“Willkommen. Ich bin Tobias Fuchs,” he said warmly, extending his hand to Marcus.

Marcus grinned proudly — the way men grin when they believe themselves cleverer than they are — and replied in German:

“Marcus Keller. Freut mich.
This is my wife. She doesn’t understand German, but she’s harmless.”

Harmless?

Tobias glanced at me. I forced a polite smile, lowered my eyes, and pretended confusion.

“Please, come in,” Tobias said, switching to English for my sake. His accent was soft, calm. He seemed the kind of man who held respect as a default, not an effort.

The apartment was beautiful — airy, sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows, wooden floors, and a balcony overlooking a leafy park.

“It’s lovely,” I whispered.

Marcus translated to Tobias:
“My wife thinks it’s nice. But she’s easily impressed.”

My cheeks burned.
Tobias’s brow tightened just slightly.

We toured the apartment room by room. Tobias explained everything — new appliances, insulated windows, building management. Marcus translated some pieces correctly, omitted others, and flat-out altered a few to make himself sound like the stricter negotiator.

By the time we returned to the living room, Tobias offered coffee.

We sat — I on the edge of the couch, Marcus sprawled confidently, Tobias in an armchair.

Then the real conversation began.

4. The Words Not Meant for Me

Tobias switched to German again, speaking frankly now that he thought I couldn’t understand.

“This apartment has been special to me. I raised my daughter here for three years. But I’m moving back home. My wife misses me.”

A small detail. A human one.
Marcus dismissed it entirely in his translation:

“He says he’s moving for work. Contract ended.”

I sipped my coffee, listening quietly.

Then the talk shifted to money.

Tobias stated his price. Marcus immediately scoffed and countered with an absurdly low offer, speaking rapidly:

“You know how it is — the wife doesn’t understand finances. She just wants a pretty kitchen. I make the decisions.”

Tobias’s frown deepened.

But Marcus didn’t notice.

He went on:

“Honestly, she doesn’t need to know everything. Women panic when details come up.”

My stomach churned.

They negotiated for twenty minutes until Tobias offered a slightly reduced price. Marcus smirked triumphantly:

“See? Easy when you know how to handle people.”

But then—

Then came the conversation that destroyed everything I thought I knew about my marriage.

Tobias said carefully:

“One more thing. For the contract — in my country it’s easier if the property is put in one name first. You can add your wife later.”

Marcus didn’t hesitate even a second.

“Perfect. Let’s put it only in my name.”

I froze.

Tobias blinked.
“Does your wife… agree?”

Marcus laughed.

Actually laughed.

“Please. She doesn’t understand a word. And even if she did — it’s not her business. I pay. I own. She lives comfortably because of me. That’s enough.”

Tobias’s face shifted — not judgment, not anger — but disappointment.
He looked at me briefly.

I kept my expression empty.
The perfect illusion.

Inside, something broke.
Not loudly.
Not with drama.
But quietly, like glass cracking.

5. After the Viewing

We left the apartment. Marcus was cheerful.

“I nailed that negotiation,” he boasted in the car. “Told you I’d handle it. Tobias thinks I’m firm. Good impression.”

I stared out the window.
“Mm.”

He didn’t notice.

“We’ll sign next week. Everything in order. Great investment. And you’ll get your nice big kitchen, huh?”

I swallowed down a bitter taste.

At home, Marcus collapsed onto the couch with a beer and turned on a football game.

I stood in the hallway for a long moment, shoes still on.

Then something inside me — something long asleep — stood up.

6. The Confrontation

“Marcus,” I said, stepping into the living room.

He didn’t look away from the screen. “Hm?”

“We need to talk.”

“Later. Game’s on.”

“No. Now.”

This time, he looked at me — startled.

“You’re… being dramatic. What’s the problem?”

“Whose name,” I asked steadily, “were you planning to put the condo in?”

Marcus blinked twice.
Too slow.
Suspiciously slow.

“In ours. Obviously.”

“That’s not what you told Tobias.”

His face twitched.
“What?”

“I heard you. I understood everything.”

Silence hit the room like a dropped stone.

“You…” Marcus straightened. “You speak German?”

“I do.”

“For how long?”

“A year.”

He stood, face flushing with anger and humiliation.

“You lied to me!”

“No,” I corrected quietly. “I simply didn’t tell you. There’s a difference.”

“You tricked me! You spied on me in that apartment!”

“I listened. To my husband. Talking about me as if I were furniture.”

Marcus snorted angrily, pacing.

“You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“Am I?” I stepped forward. “When you said, ‘It’s not her business’? When you said I live comfortably because of you? When you said you would put the condo only in your name?”

“That’s how things are done!” he snapped. “You don’t understand finances, Kesha. You’d complicate the process. I was going to add you later.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“I didn’t need to.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “You did.”

We stood facing each other — fifteen years of swallowed words swirling between us.

Finally Marcus exploded:

“What do you want from me? Apology? Fine, I’m sorry. I said something stupid. I didn’t mean anything.”

“But you did,” I said softly. “People mean the things they say when they think no one is listening.”

He fell silent.

“I can’t keep living like someone who doesn’t exist in her own marriage,” I said. “Invisible. Voiceless.”

Marcus rubbed his temples.

“So what now? You want a separation?”

“I want…” I exhaled shakily. “I want myself back.”

He scoffed. “You’ll regret throwing everything away. Life’s expensive, Kesha. You can’t afford to be on your own.”

I met his eyes — for the first time without fear.

“Maybe not. But I can’t afford to stay, either.”

7. Leaving

Marcus left that night. Took a few bags, slammed the door, and texted me only one sentence:

“We’ll talk later.”

But later never came.

The next morning, I dialed Tobias.

He answered quickly.

“Hallo?”

“This is Kesha,” I said in German.

A pause — then warm surprise.

“You speak beautifully. How can I help you?”

“We… won’t be buying the apartment,” I said gently.

“I assumed so.”

“But I wanted to thank you. For yesterday. For being honest.”

He hesitated.

“I’m sorry for what you heard. It wasn’t right. No spouse should be spoken about like that.”

I closed my eyes.

“Thank you.”

“And listen,” Tobias added, voice awkward but sincere, “if you… ever want to buy the apartment yourself, we can talk. I would give you time. And a discount.”

I laughed in disbelief.

“I… I don’t know if I can afford that.”

“Maybe not now. But maybe someday.”

Someday.
A word I hadn’t allowed myself to think in years.

8. The Divorce

The divorce was quieter than I expected.

Marcus fought for the first week — insults, guilt-trips, manipulation.
In week two, he got tired.
In week three, indifferent.

By month two, he simply wanted it over with.

We split the condo. I took my half in cash — enough for a down payment somewhere small.

Not Tobias’s place — not yet — but someday no longer felt impossible.

I moved into a modest rental on the 10th floor of a building with creaky elevators and terrible parking.

But it was mine.

I bought plates I liked.
Flowers Marcus always said were “pointless.”
A desk for studying.
A lamp that made warm light.

I breathed again.

And for the first time in years, I felt oxygen in my lungs.

9. A New Beginning

Three months after the divorce, something unexpected happened.

A German-based logistics firm posted an opening for a bilingual accounting assistant.

I applied.
Got an interview.
And when the hiring manager asked me to demonstrate language ability, I spoke confidently:

“Ich freue mich sehr über diese Gelegenheit…”

She smiled.

“You’re hired.”

I walked out of the office trembling with joy.

My first real job with growth.
My first salary that didn’t depend on someone else.
My first step toward the life I had once told myself I wasn’t capable of.

A year passed.

And then—
One evening, as I returned to my apartment, I saw something leaning against my door.

A potted lavender plant.

And a note.

“For your new home.
— Julian (from accounting)”

I remembered him vaguely — quiet, kind, observant.
We had spoken during a company workshop. He had laughed at one of my jokes. I had felt something spark inside me I hadn’t felt in years.

I picked up the pot and smiled.

Not because of romance — not yet.
But because someone saw me.
Really saw me.

10. Full Circle

The following spring, Tobias called unexpectedly.

“Kesha? Are you still considering the apartment? I’m leaving the country next month. If you want it… I held it off the market.”

My heart skipped.

I wasn’t ready.

Or maybe… maybe I was.

Two weeks later, I signed the contract.

My name.
Only mine.

When Tobias handed me the keys, he smiled with fatherly pride.

“You did it.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I did.”

11. What Freedom Sounds Like

On my first night in the new condo — my condo — I stood at the window overlooking the park.

The air was cool.
Lights flickered across the city.
My life stretched before me — uncertain, imperfect, but finally mine.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Julian:

“Still up? Want help assembling furniture? I’m bringing snacks.”

I typed back:

“Yes. Come over.”

I set the phone down, breathed in the quiet, and let the silence settle around me like a soft blanket.

For so many years, I was spoken about as if I couldn’t hear.
As if I didn’t understand.
As if I didn’t matter.

But now?

Now I spoke my own languages.
Made my own decisions.
Lived in my own space.

And every beat of my heart whispered the same simple truth:

I am no longer invisible.
I am no longer silent.
I am enough.

THE END