The apartment went to Dasha from her grandmother when the girl turned twenty-four. A bright two-bedroom place with a view of the park. The inheritance was оформed quickly—there were no disputes, and no other heirs either. She received the documents six months after her grandmother’s death, as required by law. She simply came to the notary’s office, signed the papers, and that was it. The apartment belonged entirely to Dasha, free of any encumbrances.
By that time, she had already been working as an engineer at a factory for three years. The salary was decent—seventy thousand rubles a month. Not wealth, of course, but more than enough to live on. Dasha saved money, planned renovations, and sometimes treated herself to small joys, like trips to a friend’s dacha or buying new clothes. Life moved along steadily and calmly.
Ilya appeared somehow naturally, without any drama or grand romantic story. They met at a mutual friend’s birthday, chatted, exchanged numbers. Their first date was at a café near the factory—just coffee and conversation about work, plans, movies. Nothing extraordinary, but pleasant. Ilya worked as a manager at a construction company, earned about the same, and rented a one-room apartment in a neighboring district.
They dated without rushing. Ilya invited Dasha over for dinner, cooked pretty well—especially fish. Sometimes he stayed the night at her place; she didn’t mind. On weekends they went to the theater or simply walked around the city, discussed the news, made vacation plans. The relationship developed without unnecessary haste, which Dasha liked. She’d seen too many friends dive in headfirst and then spend a long time dealing with the consequences.
After a year of walks and dates, Ilya raised the topic of moving in together. They were sitting in Dasha’s kitchen, drinking tea after dinner. A summer evening, windows open, children playing in the courtyard outside.
“Listen, why should I pay rent if you have an apartment?” Ilya said, setting his cup aside. “We could move in together—try living as a couple.”
Dasha looked at him carefully. The suggestion was logical; she’d been thinking about it herself for the past few months.
“We can,” she agreed. “But let’s agree on a few things right away.”
“Like what?”
“The apartment is mine. It’s an inheritance—personal property. You’re moving in with me, not us moving into a shared apartment. Do you understand the difference?”
Ilya nodded.
“Of course. I’m not claiming anything.”
“Good. Household matters and expenses we split evenly—groceries, utilities, all that. But the property stays mine.”
“Reasonable,” Ilya smiled. “I like that you say everything up front. No misunderstandings.”
The move went quickly—Ilya didn’t have many things. He left most of his furniture in the rented place, taking only personal belongings, his computer, and books. He fit into the apartment naturally and didn’t try to change anything drastically. Sometimes he suggested buying something new—a lamp for the living room, or a better coffee machine—but he always asked Dasha’s opinion first.
Daily life settled in without major problems. Ilya turned out to be neat, cleaned up after himself, and they cooked in turns. Money issues were simple: every month they calculated shared costs and split them in half. No one cheated; they kept receipts; there were no arguments. Dasha continued saving money, putting it away for a car. Ilya saved too—he didn’t say what for, but regularly transferred a set amount into a deposit account.
Two years passed like that. Quietly, calmly, with no big shocks. Ilya didn’t bring up marriage, and Dasha wasn’t in a hurry either. Why rush if everything was good? But gradually relatives started dropping hints, especially Ilya’s mother. She visited once a month and each time asked when the young couple would “decide” what they were doing.
“How long are you going to sit in a civil marriage?” the woman would say, stirring sugar into her tea. “In our day, people signed after a year.”
“Mom, we’re adults. We’ll figure it out ourselves,” Ilya answered, but Dasha could see the talks got under his skin.
Finally, in the summer, when they were already in their third year together, Ilya brought up official marriage.
“Maybe we should just register?” he suggested one evening while they were watching a movie. “Just at the registry office, no big celebration. I think it’s time.”
Dasha considered it. There were no real objections—they lived well, got along. Why postpone?
“Fine,” she agreed. “But no lavish wedding. I don’t like big events.”
“Of course. We’ll apply, and in a month we’ll sign. We’ll invite only our parents.”
That’s what they did. They filed the paperwork, set a date. The wedding was modest—only the closest people, a restaurant dinner for ten. Dasha wore a new dress, Ilya wore a suit. They signed quickly, took photos, had dinner with relatives. By evening they were already home, drinking tea in the familiar kitchen.
“So now we’re husband and wife,” Ilya said, hugging Dasha.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Though in essence nothing has changed.”
But that wasn’t entirely true. Changes began gradually, almost imperceptibly. First, Ilya started saying “our apartment” instead of “your apartment.” Then phrases like “now everything is shared” or “we’re a real family now.” Dasha didn’t attach much importance to it—just words, a habit, what of it?
The first serious conversation happened three months after the wedding. They were sitting in the kitchen, sorting utility bills.
“Dash, I’ve been thinking,” Ilya began, setting the receipts aside. “Shouldn’t we re-register the apartment?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, just for balance. Put half in my name. You never know what can happen in life.”
Dasha froze with the electricity bill in her hand and slowly lifted her eyes to her husband.
“What exactly could happen?”
“Anything. What if something happens to you and I’m left with nothing? Or the other way around—something happens to me and my parents get nothing.”
“Ilya,” Dasha carefully placed the papers on the table. “We agreed. The apartment is mine—my grandmother’s inheritance.”
“But now we’re married. By law everything is joint property.”
“Inheritance isn’t joint marital property. It’s personal property received before marriage.”
Ilya frowned.
“Technically, yes. But humanly… We’re one family now.”
“Being one family doesn’t mean I have to give away half the apartment.”
“Not give away—share. That’s fair.”
Dasha felt her shoulders tense. The conversation was taking an unpleasant turn.
“It would be fair if we bought a place together or paid a mortgage together. But as it is, it sounds like you just want half of what I got from my grandmother.”
“Dash, don’t exaggerate. I’m not demanding—I’m suggesting it. For our peace of mind.”
“My peace of mind doesn’t require any re-registration.”
Ilya fell silent and stared out the window. Dasha could see the topic wasn’t finished—just postponed. And she was right: a week later it came up again.
“You know, I consulted a lawyer at work,” Ilya said casually as they washed dishes after dinner.
“About what?”
“About the apartment. He said if, during marriage, you make improvements—renovations, remodeling—those investments become joint property.”
Dasha dried her hands with a towel and turned to her husband.
“And what are you trying to say?”
“That we planned a renovation in the bedroom. I’m ready to invest my money, but then it’s logical that I should have rights too.”
“You got married—you didn’t buy square meters,” Dasha snapped. “So forget your ‘share.’”
The words came out harsher than she intended. Ilya froze, the dish sponge stuck in his hand.
“What did you just say?”
“What I said. Did you marry me to get housing?”
“What does housing have to do with it? I’m talking about fairness.”
“What fairness? You moved into a ready-made apartment, stopped paying rent, save money, live in good conditions. Isn’t that enough?”
Ilya threw the sponge into the sink.
“So I’m a tenant to you, yeah? A temporary lodger?”
“You’re my husband, but that doesn’t stop the apartment from being mine.”
“Got it,” Ilya wiped his hands and headed out of the kitchen. “Very clear.”
The evening passed in silence. Ilya went to the living room, turned on the TV, pretended to watch the news. Dasha stayed in the kitchen, re-washing already clean dishes and thinking about how quickly people can change. Two years ago Ilya wouldn’t have even mentioned ownership. And now…
In the days that followed, he avoided serious talks, but the tension in the apartment was constant. Ilya began responding to every little thing with sharp remarks. When Dasha bought new bed linen, he said:
“Interesting—are you going to consider my opinion? Or is that also only your prerogative?”
“What prerogative? It’s just bed linen,” Dasha replied.
“Just,” Ilya muttered. “In your apartment everything is ‘just.’”
A week later the discussion reached the point of absurdity. Ilya came home early, sat at the kitchen table, and waited while Dasha cooked dinner.
“Is it really that hard to trust your husband?” Ilya started without preamble. “In normal families everything is shared.”
“Ilya, we’ve already discussed this.”
“No, we haven’t discussed it. You just stated your position and that’s it. And a family is about the common, about trust.”
Dasha set the frying pan on the stove and turned toward him.
“Trust isn’t measured in square meters.”
“But it’s measured by the willingness to share what matters most.”
“What matters most in our family is you and me—not real estate.”
Ilya stood up and paced the kitchen.
“Nice words. But when it comes to real actions, you cling to your property like a lifebuoy.”
“I’m holding on to what has legally belonged to me since I was twenty-four.”
“And what happens if we get divorced?” he suddenly asked, stopping by the window.
Dasha froze with a knife in her hand.
“What do you mean?”
“In a divorce, half would still be mine. I invest morally, I live here, I keep house.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Dasha carefully set the knife down on the cutting board.
“Repeat what you just said.”
“What I said. In a divorce the court takes into account moral investments, shared life.”
“Ilya, are you seriously thinking a court would give you half the apartment I inherited a year before we even met?”
“I don’t know what I think. But I have rights.”
Dasha turned off the stove, left the kitchen, and went to the bedroom. Ilya followed.
“Where are you going?”
Dasha opened the dresser and took out a folder of documents. She returned to the kitchen and spread the papers on the table.
“Here’s the certificate of inheritance,” she pointed to the document. “The date. Look carefully.”
Ilya leaned over the papers.
“July twenty-eighth, two thousand twenty-one.”
“Right. And when did we meet?”
“In August two thousand twenty-two.”
“A year after I received the inheritance. Here’s a Rosreestr statement showing the apartment is registered to me with no encumbrances. Here are documents confirming we didn’t make any improvements using family funds.”
Ilya was silent, studying the paperwork.
“Under the Family Code,” Dasha continued calmly, “inheritance is the personal property of the spouse who received it. Even if the inheritance is received during marriage, the second spouse has no rights to it. And if it was received before marriage—especially.”
“But we live together…”
“We do. So what? I pay utilities, buy groceries, run the household alongside you. No one is exploiting you.”
“It’s not about exploitation,” Ilya sat back down. “It’s about the relationship. About family.”
“A family isn’t built on seizing someone else’s property.”
“Not someone else’s—my wife’s.”
“My wife’s property that existed before she even met her husband.”
The conversation hit a dead end. Ilya gathered the documents into a stack and pushed them away.
“So I’m nobody to you. A temporary lodger.”
“You’re my husband. But marriage doesn’t mean I must give away half of what I earned or received independently of you.”
“In other families wives trust their husbands.”
“In other families husbands don’t demand title documents to their wives’ inheritance.”
Over the next days the tension grew. Ilya nitpicked everything—how Dasha made coffee, how she arranged things in the wardrobe, how she planned weekends. Any household situation he managed to drag back into the question of ownership.
“You buy groceries without asking me,” Ilya said when he saw shopping bags.
“I buy what we need. Like always.”
“But you decide on your own. In your apartment, with your money.”
“With our money. We split expenses evenly.”
“We split them, but the final word is always yours.”
“Because it’s my home.”
“Exactly. Yours.”
By the end of the week there was one last conversation. Ilya came home gloomier than a storm cloud, sat in the living room, and turned the TV up full volume. Dasha asked him to lower it—there was a small child next door.
“And what do I care about the neighbors?” Ilya snapped. “What, I don’t have the right to relax in my own home?”
“In someone else’s home, you mean?” Dasha уточнила.
“Exactly. Someone else’s. Where I’m a temporary guest who can be kicked out at any moment.”
“No one is kicking you out.”
“But you can. Anytime. Because everything is yours.”
Dasha was exhausted by these talks—the constant hints, reproaches, attempts to guilt her were getting on her nerves.
“Ilya, I’ll explain one last time,” she sat down opposite him. “You married me, not the apartment. If real estate matters more to you than the relationship—then you’re not a husband, you’re an investor.”
“You’re humiliating me.”
“I’m protecting what belongs to me by right.”
“So the apartment matters more than family.”
“No. But principles matter more than your attempts to get what you have no right to.”
Ilya резко stood up.
“In normal families they don’t do this.”
“In normal families husbands don’t claim their wives’ inheritance.”
“Fine,” he headed for the door. “Very clear.”
“If it’s not clear, I’ll put it simpler,” Dasha said. “You married me—you didn’t buy square meters. Accept it or pack your things.”
The words came out harder than she planned, but there was no point postponing it anymore. Ilya stopped in the doorway.
“Alright,” he said after a pause. “I’ll pack.”
Within an hour, Ilya had packed a bag with the essentials. The rest he left in the apartment—books, winter clothes, work papers.
“I’ll stay at my sister’s, think things over,” he said, zipping his jacket.
“Okay.”
“You’re not even trying to stop me.”
“I’m not going to hold on to someone who sees me as a source of square meters.”
Ilya left, slamming the door a little harder than necessary. Dasha remained alone in the quiet apartment. A strange feeling—she should have felt sad, but mostly she felt relief. As if a heavy load had been lifted from her shoulders.
Two weeks passed in complete silence. Ilya didn’t call or message. Dasha worked, met friends, read books in the evenings. Gradually the tension that had been building for months began to ease. The apartment became a home again, not a battlefield over property.
In the third week, Ilya called.
“Can I come pick up my things?” he asked сухо.
“Of course. When is convenient for you?”
“Tomorrow evening.”
“Okay, I’ll be home.”
Ilya came exactly at the appointed time. He gathered the remaining things silently, methodically. Dasha didn’t interfere—she sat in the kitchen, drank tea. When he finished, he stood in the hallway with the bags in his hands.
“Maybe you’ll still think about it?” Ilya asked. “About a deed of gift. At least one room.”
“No,” Dasha replied calmly. “I won’t.”
“So that’s it.”
“Yes. That’s it.”
Ilya left for good. The next day Dasha changed the locks—not out of distrust, but for her own peace of mind. The feeling of her own apartment, her own space, returned completely.
A month later a friend asked whether Dasha regretted the divorce.
“No,” Dasha answered honestly. “I regret that I didn’t understand sooner. A man who thinks not about family but about square meters isn’t a partner. He’s an investor looking for a profitable investment.”
“But he talked about love, about family.”
“He talked,” Dasha said. “But he demanded the title documents. For some reason, his words and his actions didn’t match.”
The apartment remained Dasha’s—completely, with no deeds of gift and no re-registration. She lived calmly, without daily reproaches and hints. She worked, saved money, made plans. Now she knew for sure: if a man is looking for profit in marriage rather than a life partner, it’s better to understand that right away than to deal with the consequences later.
