Anna turned on the kettle and absentmindedly looked out the window. The spring outside seemed somehow too cheerful for her mood. Someone was honking near the house—surely Valentina Petrovna from the third floor, whose brake pedal and horn were connected by the same nerve. The street smelled of fried onions and children’s screams. The kitchen smelled of mint tea and an undefined anxious feeling.
Alexey sat at the table, fiddling with a pen. It was glass, with the logo of some bank, and he had been carrying it around for about ten years. Apparently, he still had loyalty somewhere — just not in relationships.
“Want some tea?” Anna asked, trying to keep her voice steady, like a weather forecast announcer. You know, when they say “occasional rain,” but you already know your umbrella won’t save you.
“No. Let’s get straight to the point,” he answered dryly without looking up.
She sat down on a stool, poured herself some tea, wrapped her hands around the warm cup as if it could protect her from what was about to be said.
“Anna, listen. I love you, you know that. But I can’t afford to go through the same meat grinder twice. After divorcing Tanya, I spent five years paying off a mortgage on an apartment where I didn’t even choose the curtain.” Alexey looked straight at her. His eyes were calm, almost bureaucratic. “That’s why I suggest a prenuptial agreement.”
He placed a folder on the table. The one from that store with the loud name “Trust,” irony intended. A blue plastic file containing papers written not by her hand.
“Are you serious?” Anna’s question came out hoarse, unexpectedly. “You’re suggesting I sign to admit that I’m just ‘temporarily sitting here,’ and if anything, I’ll leave in slippers with my underwear?”
“It’s just a formality. Everyone should have their own. Me — the apartment, you — your independence. All fair.”
“Fair?!” She almost dropped her cup. “You call that fair? Alexey, you have a three-room apartment downtown, ‘yours.’ And I have a mortgage in Balashikha and a mother who still doesn’t know I moved in with you. And you say ‘all fair.’”
“Don’t dramatize. It’s just legal protection. I don’t want to get burned again.”
Anna laughed. Not happily, but nervously — like when you realize you’re trapped and the only way out is shame or scandal.
“Haven’t you thought that if you don’t trust me, maybe you shouldn’t start all this?”
“I trust you. I’m just not an idiot.”
“Great. So according to your logic, I’m a potential parasite waiting for you to weaken to steal your sofa and Samsung.”
He was silent. Like a man who had already said everything and now just waited for the woman to “think it over and calm down.” Anna stood up.
“I’ll tell you this. This agreement isn’t about property. It’s about how you see me. Like a tenant. Like someone who’s ‘about to steal.’”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Screw your legal talk, Lyosha. This isn’t exaggeration — it’s the truth. You don’t love me. You’re afraid of me.”
He lowered his eyes and scratched his chin. Same as always — emotions under control, rationality on a shield.
“I just want to sleep peacefully. Without lawyers and dividing stuff.”
“I want to sleep with my husband, not with an accountant counting how much I ate for breakfast.”
She abruptly left the kitchen, slamming the fridge door — just because slamming a real door wasn’t possible: Alexey had soft-close hinges “to not damage the furniture.”
Later she sat on the couch, poking at her phone. Lyudmila had called three times already, but Anna didn’t answer. She knew her friend would say: “I told you so,” and all that brotherly concern would feel like salt on a wound.
When she finally pressed “call back,” Lyudmila’s voice sounded gentle, as always in these situations — with a hint of “I’m not saying ‘I told you so,’ but I did.”
“Did you really sign it?” Lyudmila almost whispered.
“Not yet. But he expects it. Says it’s just a piece of paper. A formality.”
“He’s got a calculator for a brain. Press a button — it counts. But where are the feelings, Anya? Where’s the love, all that?”
“Exactly. He has a prenuptial agreement, I have a heart attack.”
“Have you talked to a lawyer?”
“Not yet. What’s the point?”
“The point is to understand how they want to screw you — and how many pairs of socks you’ll have left after the divorce.”
Anna laughed. For the first time that evening, truly. Because Lyuda knew how to both hit you in the gut with words and hug you like a sister.
“Lyuda, I’m scared. I’m afraid if I refuse — he’ll leave. And if I agree — I’ll lose myself.”
“Then here’s your answer. You either live with him or just survive next to him. The ‘while it’s convenient’ option might work for microwaves, but not for relationships.”
“What if he says no way without the agreement?”
“Then you say, ‘Okay, goodbye, but leave the slippers by the door.’ Then you go to Marina Sergeyevna. She’s like the Hulk, but in a business suit. She’ll tear his papers to atoms.”
That night Anna didn’t sleep. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Alexey had long been asleep, turned away from her. Quiet, almost imperceptible, but she heard every breath. And with each inhale, it became clearer — she couldn’t stay in this relationship as a convenient accessory. Even if it came with heated seats and morning coffee.
She took the agreement. Slowly flipped through it. Every word was like a slap.
“Property acquired during the marriage remains the property of the party who registered it in their name.”
“The parties waive mutual claims in case of divorce.”
“Expenses for joint living are proportional to the income of the parties.”
So — he pays more, but also has more rights. And she — sit, love, and don’t claim.
The kettle clicked in the kitchen. She didn’t remember turning it on. So — Alexey.
“Not asleep?” he quietly asked, entering the room.
“No. Thinking about how to turn a woman into the accountant of his soul.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You wanted to protect yourself. And you did it — from me. Strange logic, but logical.”
He sat down next to her. Warm, familiar, but at this moment — a stranger.
“Will you still sign?”
Anna sighed deeply.
“Tomorrow I’ll talk to a lawyer. If everything you offered is really just a formality like you say, then you have nothing to fear.”
He nodded. But his face showed — he was afraid. Not of lawyers. Of the truth.
Anna ran into the business center building, mixed up the floor. The elevator got stuck between the second and third — classic. While climbing the stairs, she mentally cursed everything: Lyosha’s logic, herself for naivety, even Marina Sergeyevna, whom she hadn’t met yet but already suspected would devour her with a crunch.
Marina Sergeyevna turned out different. She looked about forty, no ponytail. Sharp, collected, with a voice that could manage three subordinates, a phone, and a divorce simultaneously.
“Anna? Come in. Sit down. Tea, coffee, support in a hard moment?”
“Uh-huh… support with a prenuptial agreement analysis,” Anna tried to joke, but her voice trembled.
“Well, then tea. I prefer sugar in my cup, not in life,” the lawyer nodded, taking the papers, spreading them like a battlefield.
There was a pause. Too long.
“Uh-huh…” Marina said, flipping through. “This isn’t even a prenuptial agreement. It’s a financial slap in the face. Who wrote this?”
“Him. With some notary. Through acquaintances. He says it’s ‘by law.’”
“By law — maybe. By conscience — definitely not. It says that if you divorce and even have a child, you still get nothing. Are you aware?”
Anna flinched. The word “child” hit home. They had discussed it. Even chosen names. And now — “if there’s a child” and “zero” in one sentence. Wonderful.
“Can… well… changes be made?”
“Anna. Everything can be changed. The question is if he’s ready. Are you even sure he’s on your side?”
“I want to be sure. I love him. It’s just… he’s afraid.”
Marina chuckled.
“Afraid? Aren’t you afraid of ending up on the street, with a suitcase of underwear and no apartment if he ‘stops feeling’ one day? That, by the way, is a quote from one of my cases.”
Anna lowered her gaze.
“I thought love wasn’t about calculations…”
“He thought differently. Now you have to decide what’s more important: his comfort or your safety. I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about respect.”
An assistant peeked in:
“Marina Sergeyevna, you have an online consultation with Mrs. Chistyakova in ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Katya. Tea for Anna. Strength for me.” She returned to Anna. “Listen carefully. You have two paths.”
She showed fingers — like in a math class when explaining “minus times minus equals plus,” but the pain still remains.
“First — you sign. Then you live in waiting. What if he cheats? What if he leaves? What if… you know.”
“I get it. To tremble every day at the thought I might end up with nothing again. I’ve been there.”
“Exactly. Second option — renegotiate terms. You have the right to fairness. He wants an agreement — fine. But one that includes you. Not just his walls and frying pans.”
“Will you help?”
“I already am. I’ll rewrite everything. Add clauses where it says: if you’re together — property is joint. If not — by agreement. If there’s a child — responsibilities. Not a handout, but accountability.”
Anna exhaled. Like she’d been held underwater and just now surfaced.
“Marina Sergeyevna, thank you. I thought lawyers were dry people. But you’re like… legal Mother Teresa.”
“I’m just a woman who divorced twice and now saves others. Seems that’s my path. That’s it, Anna, go home. Calmly. And with an answer. He tested you — now test him.”
Anna returned home at half past seven. Alexey was waiting with pancakes. Apparently, somewhere in his mind, there was: “If you’ve done something wrong — feed me.” The universal male apology system.
“Where were you?” he asked cautiously, as if he didn’t know.
“At a real lawyer,” she calmly answered and sat down at the table. “The pancakes are cold. Like our intimacy lately.”
He froze. Then sat opposite her.
“Anna. Let’s not make this a drama. I’m not your enemy. I’m just a cautious person.”
“You’re a coward, Lyosha. You’re afraid not of me but of repetition. But in the end, you create the repetition yourself. Distrust again, a woman nearby but without rights. It’s like paying for the subway but not reaching your station.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You didn’t want to give anything away. Not even faith that we’re partners. And I’m not your housekeeper. And not a ‘risky option.’ I’m the woman you supposedly love.”
He was silent. Then… pressed his lips.
“Did you bring anything from the lawyer?”
“Yes. A new draft agreement. With decent clauses. Respect for me, for us, and, believe it or not — even for your apartment. Balanced. Without slobber, but without meanness either.”
“Can I see it?”
“Sure. But keep in mind: if you say ‘this doesn’t suit me’ — we break up. Period. I don’t want to be in a partnership with one driver and a suitcase for the other.”
He took the agreement. Read it for a long time. Even his eyebrows moved. Occasionally snorted.
“You really think I’ll sign this?”
She silently stood up. Took her coat.
“Here’s your answer.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Lyudmila’s. There — an apartment without a contract but with support. And you think about whether you want partnership… or just property that doesn’t bug you.”
She slammed the door. Not too loud — those cursed soft-closures again.
Lyudmila’s apartment smelled of chicken cutlets and new life.
“Well, congratulations. You’re almost a bride with balls. Did he sign?”
“Not yet. I left. Said: either he respects me, or I’m leaving with my stuff.”
“Now you’re a real woman. Not a whiner with a ring, but a queen with self-esteem.”
“I’m scared, Lyud. What if I lost everything?”
“You didn’t lose. You found yourself back. Now wait. If he’s not an idiot — he’ll come back. With a new agreement. And those three words.”
“What three?”
“‘I get it.’ And without pancakes.”
Anna woke up early. Lyudmila had already left for errands, leaving a note on the fridge saying “eat everything but Vadim’s beer.” The apartment resembled a refuge for women who’d fled absurd marriages, toxic bosses, and cosmetologists who do eyebrows “like young Aunt Zina’s.” Anna valued this more than anything now — the silence to think.
On the second day of her break from Lyosha’s universe, he hadn’t called. No texts, no messages. Nothing. A total vacuum, with only one thought stirring: maybe he’s glad everything just blew over?
On the third day, she went outside. The weather was like inside — cloudy but bearable. She walked to a café, ordered the most expensive cappuccino — out of spite for all modesty. And at that moment, Alexey found her.
Without flowers. Without pancakes. With a piece of paper. And a girl about twelve.
Anna almost dropped her coffee.
“Hi,” he breathed out.
“Is this your… daughter?” she whispered.
The girl frowned and looked away.
“Sonia. Daughter. From the first marriage. I wanted to show her to you long ago, but… it never worked out.”
“You wanted to show me your daughter but decided to start with a dismissive prenuptial agreement? Interesting approach.”
“Anna, please. I brought the signed agreement. The new one. Based on the template you gave.”
He handed over the paper. She took it, glanced through. No tricks. No lies. Clean. Like a pension fund tear.
“And you decided to do it like this? With a kid as insurance? Is this blackmail or a demonstration that you actually have feelings?”
“I want you to see: I’m not afraid to share what’s dear to me. Neither property nor life. I was just afraid to get stuck again. But you — you’re a chance. And I don’t want to waste it.”
“Very romantic. Hope the girl doesn’t hear everything now.”
“Sonia has heard worse. Right, Sonia?”
The girl shrugged and gloomily muttered:
“I don’t care, I just want to go home.”
“I understand you,” Anna nodded. “Me too.”
“Shall we go?” he quietly asked.
“Are you sure? Now your agreement says I’m not a ‘live-in,’ but an ‘equal partner.’ You sleep well with that?”
“Yes. Better than when you left. I realized I don’t need a convenient woman. I need you. With all the ‘no’s,’ ‘I’ll think about it,’ and ‘take your slippers out of the bathroom.’”
She looked at him. Then at Sonia. The girl clearly endured. Didn’t sob or roll her eyes — just endured. A good actor. But Anna could read those well.
“Okay. Consider this a test drive. No sex until you prove you can share not only square meters but respect.”
“I’m ready.”
“Then let’s go. But don’t put slippers in the bathroom. And I’m still refusing pancakes.”
Sonia finally smiled.
“You have a funny family. Mom said you’re ‘weird adults.’ Looks like she was right.”
“You haven’t seen him ironing shirts. That’s a survival performance,” Anna smiled.
And they went. The three of them. No guarantees, but with a chance.
In the evening, they sat in the kitchen. Alexey was washing the dishes (!), Sonia was typing something on her phone, and Anna was drinking tea. Not a metaphor — regular black tea with lemon.
“Do you believe this can work?” he asked without turning.
“No. But I want to try. And that’s already something.”
He nodded. Sonia looked up:
“You’re weird. But maybe not hopeless.”
And for the first time in a long time, Anna thought: maybe this time — she didn’t get stuck. She came home. Where finally there are walls, words, and coffee without fear.
