I did not shout either as I left the bedroom. My weapon was not rage, but cold calculation.

First I opened the banking app. The joint account — empty. Every penny had been transferred to my personal account.

Four credit cards in her name, which I had been paying — blocked. The car loan we had taken out together — I revoked my guarantee. The car will be repossessed in the coming days.

Then I took out the phone. Ten seconds of video, shot on the stairs: my wife and my brother. Footage that leaves no room for excuses.

I created a group chat of thirty-two people — parents on both sides, grandmothers, grandfathers, our friends and even her colleagues. The text was short:

“Here’s why we are divorcing. Video attached. Do not message me about this.”

I pressed “Send.”

A few minutes later their phones began to vibrate in a torrent. First silence, then panic. I heard her footsteps, her muffled cry: “What have you done?!” And I calmly looked at her and said:

— You have until the end of the week to pack your things.

My brother tried to mumble something, but I simply pointed to the door. And they left. Out of my life. Out of my home.

They will have to live with this shame forever.

And it was far more painful than any blow.