Anna turned on the kettle and absentmindedly looked out the window. The spring outside was too cheerful for her mood. Someone was honking near the house, most likely Valentina Petrovna from the third floor, whose brake pedal and horn were connected by a single nerve. The air smelled of fried onions and children’s screams. The kitchen was filled with the scent of mint tea and an undefined anxious state.
Alexey sat at the table, fiddling with a pen. It was glass, with the logo of some bank, and he had been carrying it with him for about ten years. Apparently, loyalty still lives somewhere—just not in relationships.
“Would you like some tea?” Anna asked, trying to keep her voice steady, like a weather forecaster. You know, when they say, «There will be local precipitation,» but you already know your umbrella won’t save you.
“No. Let’s get to the point,” he replied curtly, not lifting his eyes.
She sat down on a stool, poured herself some tea, and 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 go through the same meat grinder a second time. After my divorce with Tanya, I paid the mortgage for five years on a flat where I didn’t even choose the curtains myself.” Alexey looked directly at her. His eyes were calm, almost bureaucratic. “So, I’m proposing a prenuptial agreement.”
He placed a folder on the table. The same one from the store with the loud name «Trust,» irony included. A blue plastic file, inside which were sheets written not in her hand.
“Are you serious?” Anna didn’t expect her voice to sound so hoarse. “Are you suggesting that I sign something that says I’m just here to… ‘sit for a while,’ and then, if anything, I’ll leave in slippers and with my underwear?”
“It’s just a formality. Everyone should have their own. I get the apartment, you get your independence. It’s fair.”
“Fair?!” She almost dropped the cup. “You call this fair? Alexey, you’ve got a three-room place in the center, ‘yours.’ And I’ve got a mortgage in Balashikha and a mother who doesn’t even know I moved in with you. And you tell me it’s ‘fair.’”
“Don’t dramatize. It’s just legal protection. I don’t want to get burned again.”
Anna laughed. Not in a fun way, but nervously—like people laugh when they realize they’ve stepped into a trap, and the only way out is through disgrace or scandal.
“Did you ever think that if you don’t trust me, maybe we shouldn’t even start this?”
“I trust you. I just’m not an idiot.”
“Great. So, by your logic, I’m a potential parasite. Waiting for you to weaken, so I can steal your couch and your Samsung.”
He was silent. Like a man who had already said everything, now just waiting for the woman to “think and calm down.” Anna stood up.
“I’ll say this. This agreement isn’t about property. It’s about how you see me. Like a housemate. Like someone who’s ‘just about to take off.’”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Go to hell with your legalisms, Alexey. It’s not exaggeration—it’s the truth. You don’t love me. You’re afraid of me.”
He lowered his gaze. Scratched his chin. Everything was as usual—emotions under control, rationality on display.
“I just want to sleep in peace. Without lawyers and division.”
“And I want to sleep with a husband, not with an accountant who counts how much I ate for breakfast.”
She abruptly left the kitchen, slamming the fridge door, simply because she couldn’t slam the real door—Alexey had everything with dampers so as not to “damage the furniture.”
Later, she sat in the room, on the couch, scrolling through her phone. Ludmila had called three times, but Anna hadn’t answered. She knew what her friend would say: “I told you so,” and all this sisterly concern would feel like salt on a burn.
When she finally hit “return call,” Ludmila’s voice sounded soft, as always in such cases—with a hint of “well, I didn’t say ‘I told you so,’ but I did tell you.”
“Did you really sign it?” Ludmila almost whispered.
“Not yet. But he’s expecting it. He says it’s just a piece of paper. A formality.”
“He’s got the brain of a calculator. Press the button—it counts. And where’s the feeling, Anna? Where’s the love, all that stuff?”
“Exactly. He’s got a prenuptial agreement, and I’ve got a heart attack.”
“Did you talk to a lawyer?”
“Not yet. What for?”
“The point is to understand how they want to screw you over—and how many pairs of socks you’ll have left after the divorce.”
Anna laughed. For the first time that evening, for real. Because Ludmila knew how to hit with words and hold you close like a sister.
“Luda, I’m scared. I’m afraid that if I refuse, he’ll leave. But if I agree, I’ll leave myself.”
“Here’s your answer. You either live with him, or you survive next to him. The ‘while it’s convenient’ option might work for microwaves, but not for relationships.”
“What if he says it’s impossible without a contract?”
“Then you’ll say, ‘Okay, goodbye, but leave your slippers at the door.’ And then go to Marina Sergeevna. She’s like Hulk, only in a business suit. She’ll tear his paper to atoms.”
That night, Anna didn’t sleep. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Alexey had long since fallen asleep, turned away from her. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, but she heard every breath he took. And with each breath, it became clearer—she couldn’t stay in this relationship as the convenient accessory. Even with heated seats and coffee in the mornings.
She picked up the agreement. Slowly flipped through it. Every word felt 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.”
“Joint living expenses are divided in proportion to the income of the parties.”
In other words—he pays more, but he has more rights. And she—sit, love, and don’t claim anything.
The kettle clicked in the kitchen. She didn’t remember turning it on. So, it must’ve been Alexey.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked softly, entering the room.
“No. I’m thinking about how to turn a woman into the accountant of her own soul.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You meant to protect yourself. And you did it—from me. Strange logic, but logical.”
He sat next to her. Warm, familiar, but in that second—foreign.
“Are you going to sign it?”
Anna took a deep breath.
“Tomorrow, I’ll talk to a lawyer. If everything you’ve suggested is really as much of a formality as you say, you’ve got nothing to fear.”
He nodded. But his face said—he was afraid. Not of the lawyers. But of the truth.
Anna ran into the business center, having mixed up the floor. The elevator was stuck between the second and third floors—classic. While walking up the stairs, she mentally cursed everything: Alexey’s logic, herself for her naivety, and even Marina Sergeevna, whom she hadn’t yet met but already suspected would devour her with a crunch.
Marina Sergeevna turned out to be different. She looked about forty, with no tail. Neat, composed, with a voice that could manage three subordinates, a phone, and a divorce simultaneously.
“Anna? Come in. Sit down. Tea, coffee, support during a difficult time?”
“Uh-huh… support in addition to analyzing the prenuptial agreement,” Anna tried to joke, but her voice cracked.
“Well, then tea. I also prefer sugar in the cup, not in life,” the lawyer nodded and took the papers, smoothing them out like a battlefield.
A pause followed. Too long.
“Uh-huh…” Marina said, flipping through. “This isn’t even a prenuptial agreement. This is a financial slap. Who wrote this?”
“He did. Well, with some notary. Through acquaintances. He says it’s ‘by the law.’”
“By the law, maybe. But by conscience—definitely not. It’s written here that even if you divorce and have a child, you still get nothing. Are you aware?”
Anna flinched. The word “child” hit the mark. They had discussed it. Even picked names. And now—“if there’s a child” and “nothing” in one phrase. Perfect.
“Can we… well… make changes?”
“Anna. Anything is possible. The question is whether he’s ready. Are you sure he’s on your side?”
“I want to be sure. I love him. It’s just… he’s afraid.”
Marina hummed.
“Afraid? And aren’t you afraid of ending up on the street with a suitcase of underwear and no apartment if he one day ‘stops feeling’? By the way, that’s a quote from one of my cases.”
Anna lowered her gaze.
“I thought love wasn’t about calculations…”
“Well, he thought otherwise. Now you have to think about what’s more important: his comfort or your safety. I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about respect.”
A helper peeked into the office:
“Marina Sergeevna, you have an online consultation with Ms. Chistyakova in ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Katya. Tea for Anna. Strength of spirit for me.” She returned to Anna. “Okay. Listen carefully. You have two options.”
She showed her fingers—like in a math class when they explain that “minus times minus” gives a plus, but the pain still remains.
“First—you sign. Then you live in anticipation. What if he changes. What if he leaves. What if… Well, you get it.”
“I get it. Shaking every day at the thought that I’ll end up with nothing again. Been there.”
“Exactly. The second option—revise the terms. You have a right to fairness. He wants an agreement—let there be one. But one where you’re included. Not just his walls and pans.”
“Will you help?”
“I already am. I’ll rewrite everything. I’ll add clauses that will reflect: if you’re together—the property is joint. If not together—by agreement. If there’s a child—obligations. Not a handout, but responsibility.”
Anna exhaled. It felt like she’d been held underwater and only now was coming up for air.
“Marina Sergeevna, thank you. I thought lawyers were dry people. But you—you’re like… the legal Mother Teresa.”
“I’m just a woman who’s been divorced twice and now saves others. Apparently, that’s my path. Alright, Anna, go home. Calmly. And with an answer. He tested you—you test him now.”
Anna came home at half-past seven. Alexey greeted her with pancakes. Apparently, somewhere in his mind, it was: “If you did something wrong—feed her.” The universal male apology system.
“Where were you?” he asked cautiously, as if he didn’t know.
“At the lawyer’s. A real one,” she replied calmly and sat down at the table. “The pancakes are cold. Like our closeness lately.”
He froze. Then sat across from her.
“Anna. Let’s not turn this into a drama. I’m not your enemy. I’m just a cautious person.”
“You’re a coward, Alexey. You’re afraid not of me, but of repetition. But in the end, you’re creating the repetition yourself. Again, distrust. Again, a woman who’s here, but has no rights. It’s like paying for the subway, without reaching the right station.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t want to give anything. Not even the faith that we’re partners. And I’m not your housekeeper. And not an ‘option with risks.’ I’m the woman you, damn it, supposedly love.”
He went silent. And then… tightened his lips.
“Did you bring anything from the lawyer?”
“Yes. A new version of the agreement. With proper terms. With respect for me, for us, and, you won’t believe it—even for your apartment. Everything is balanced. No sobbing, but no meanness.”
“Can I see it?”
“You can. But keep in mind. If you say, ‘This doesn’t suit me,’ we’re done. And that’s it. I don’t want to be in a couple where there’s only one driver, and the other is just a suitcase.”
He took the agreement. Read it for a long time. Even his eyebrows moved. Occasionally, he snorted.
“You seriously think I’ll sign this?”
She silently stood up. Took her coat.
“Here’s your answer.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Ludmila’s. There’s an apartment without a contract, but with support. And you think about it: do you want partnership… or just ownership, that doesn’t annoy your brain.”
She slammed the door. Not too loudly—those damn dampers again.
In Ludmila’s apartment, it smelled of chicken cutlets and a new life.
“Well, I congratulate you. You’re almost a bride with balls. Did he sign it?”
“Not yet. I left. Told him: either he treats me with respect, or I leave with my things.”
“Well, now you’re a real woman. Not a whiner with a ring, but a queen with self-esteem.”
“I’m scared, Luda. What if I’ve lost everything?”
“You haven’t lost anything. You’ve got yourself back. And now, wait. If he’s not an idiot—he’ll come back. With a new agreement. And with those three words.”
“What words?”
“I understand everything.” And no pancakes.
Anna woke up early. Ludmila, as usual, left for errands, leaving a note on the fridge in the style of «eat everything except Vadim’s beer.» The apartment felt like a refuge for women who had escaped absurd marriages, toxic bosses, and beauticians who gave eyebrows «like young Aunt Zina’s.» Right now, Anna valued this more than anything—the silence in which she could think.
On the second day of her departure from Alexey’s universe, he didn’t call. No text messages, no calls. Nothing. An absolute vacuum, in which only one thought moved: maybe he’s glad it all resolved itself?
On the third day, she went outside. The weather was the same as inside—cloudy, but bearable. She walked to a coffee shop, ordered the most expensive cappuccino—just to spite her modesty. And it was at that moment that Alexey found her.
No flowers. No pancakes. With a piece of paper. And a twelve-year-old girl.
Anna almost dropped her coffee.
“Hi,” he exhaled.
“Is this your… daughter?” she almost whispered.
The girl frowned and turned away.
“Sonia. My daughter. From my first marriage. I’ve wanted to show her to you for a while, but… it never worked out.”
“You wanted to show me your daughter, but decided to start with the indifferent prenuptial agreement? Interesting approach.”
“Anna, please. I’ve brought the signed agreement. The new one. By the template you gave.”
He handed her the paper. She took it and glanced through it. No tricks. No deception. Clean. Like the tears of a pension fund.
“And you decided to do it like this? With the child as backup? Is this blackmail or a demonstration that you’re actually a person with feelings?”
“I want you to see: I’m not afraid to share what’s dear to me. Not the property, not the life. I just… was afraid of messing up again. But you—you’re not messing up. You’re a chance. And I don’t want to screw it up.”
“Very romantic. I hope the girl doesn’t hear everything.”
“Sonia’s heard worse. Right, Sonia?”
The girl shrugged and muttered gloomily:
“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? In your agreement now, I’m not the ‘common-law partner,’ but the ‘equal partner.’ Are you okay sleeping with that?”
“Yes. Better than when you left. I realized I don’t need a woman who’s convenient. 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. She was clearly tolerating. Didn’t sob, didn’t roll her eyes—just tolerated. A good actress. But Anna could read those.
“Okay. Consider this a test drive. No sex, until you prove that you can share not just square meters, but respect.”
“I’m ready.”
“Then let’s go. Just don’t put slippers in the bathroom. And I’m passing on the pancakes for now.”
Sonia finally smiled.
“You’ve got a funny family. Mom said you’re ‘strange adults.’ Seems she was right.”
“You haven’t seen how he irons shirts. It’s a survival performance,” Anna smiled.
And they went. Together. No guarantees, but with a chance.
In the evening, they sat in the kitchen. Alexey was washing dishes (!), Sonia was typing something on her phone, and Anna was drinking tea. Not a metaphor, just regular black tea with lemon.
“Do you believe this can work?” he asked, not turning around.
“No. But I want to try. And that’s already something.”
He nodded. Sonia looked up:
“You guys are weird. But maybe not that hopeless.”
And for the first time in a long time, Anna thought: maybe this time, she didn’t screw up. She entered. Into a house. Where there are finally both walls and words and coffee without fear.
