Egor unpacked a can of green peas, a pack of mayonnaise, and some boiled sausage onto the kitchen table—everything they still needed for the olivier salad. The potatoes, carrots, and eggs were already in the fridge waiting.
“Mila, I just had an idea. A brilliant one!”
“Unless it’s about where to find pickles,” Mila replied without looking up from her phone.
She was busy wrapping up a marketing report for the local cafe.
“No, think bigger, love. About our life. We’re getting married in three months.”
“Yeah?”
“So, I had a chat with Uncle Vitya…”
Mila tore her eyes from the screen. Conversations with Uncle usually meant trouble.
“So, what advice did he give you?”
“Actually, this is my idea—he just supported it. The plan: we get married and right after, we sell your apartment.”
Mila blinked in silence.
“…We sell the apartment,” Egor said enthusiastically, waving the sausage. “Add what we get from selling my car, I pay off the rest of my loan. That means we’ll have a solid down payment! We’ll get a two-bedroom in a new building, on a mortgage of course, but it’ll be ours! Spacious! Already finished by the developer! What do you think?”
Mila slowly placed her phone on the table.
“You… want to sell my apartment?”
“Everything will be shared after the wedding, so your apartment will be mine too! Mila, why are you acting like a child? We’re a family now, it’s time to upgrade. Think of when the kids come! Where would we put them here, on the mezzanine? Your uncle agrees too, he says this is the only right path. The man’s got experience—he’s been through life.”
She looked at him, but it felt like a stranger was standing in her kitchen. Here he was, in the place where every cup, every scratch on the table was part of her life, tied to memories of her grandmother. And he wanted to sell it all. Like it was just some old dresser.
“Egor, this is my grandmother’s apartment. Mine. It’s the only thing I have.”
“Then let’s make it ours! Both of us! What’s wrong with that? We’ll pay the mortgage together. I’m not saying you have to give it to me as a gift. We’re investing in our future—our future!”
The next day, she called her uncle. Viktor Petrovich picked up after the third ring.
“Hey, my dear niece! Hello, hello! So, did Egor tell you about his idea?”
“Uncle Vitia, what was that all about? Did you two discuss this behind my back?”
“Why behind your back? We discussed it like men, just trying to do what’s best for the family. Milka, you have to understand, he’s a good guy, smart. He’s thinking about the future. And that apartment… come on, it’s a one-bedroom, it feels like a cage. Your grandmother left it so you’d have a good start, not so you’d spend your whole life there.”
“So my start is to sell it and get myself stuck with a twenty-year debt?”
“Why stuck? You two can handle it together! At least it’ll be yours, a place for the family! Otherwise what is it now? He came to live with you. That just doesn’t feel right. This way, it’s a shared nest. And the apartment goes to the family, not some stranger.”
“A stranger? Egor isn’t a stranger, he’s my fiancé!”
“He’s your fiancé today, but tomorrow… things can change. If you both invest in property together, things will be fair. He’s even selling his car, you know.”
Mila clenched her fist. That car—he still had a year of payments left. And her apartment—debt-free, with history.
“Thanks for the advice, Uncle. I understand.”
She searched online for “property dispute lawyer Yaroslavl.” The voice on the phone sounded curt:
“Arkady Lvovich, I’m listening.”
“Hello. I need some advice. About an apartment.”
“Come in tomorrow at eleven. Bring your passport and all the documents for the apartment.”
The office was small and cluttered with folders. Arkady Lvovich himself looked tired, but his eyes were sharp. He silently examined the inheritance certificate and the property statement.
“Hmm. Inheritance from your grandmother. How long ago did you inherit it?”
“Five years ago.”
“Were you married then?”
“No.”
“Excellent. According to Article 36 of the Family Code, this is your personal property. In any future marriage, it won’t count as jointly acquired property. You can sleep easy. Anything else?”
“Yes. My fiancé… he wants to sell it after we get married, add the money from selling his car, and buy a two-bedroom apartment with a mortgage.”
The lawyer looked up at her and paused.
“But is that what you want?”
“No.”
“That’s a wise decision. Let me explain in simple terms, my dear. As long as the apartment is yours, it stays yours. In a divorce or even during an apocalypse. But as soon as you sell it after marrying, and use that money plus some extra to buy a new one…”
He paused to let her process it.
“The new apartment bought during the marriage counts as joint property. Do you understand?”
“But most of the money would come from my apartment!”
— You’ll have to prove all that in court. Collect receipts, bank statements, show that the money really came from selling your inherited property… Meanwhile, your husband will argue: “I contributed too! We saved together! I put all my salary into it!” And the court might just split everything fifty-fifty. Maybe, they’ll deduct the initial payment if you can prove its source is absolutely clean. In the end, you could go from owning a whole apartment to owning just half. Or even less, if there’s a mortgage involved.
Continued in the comments.
Mila felt her hands grow cold.
— So… what should I do?
— Is your fiancé a good man? Do you love him?
— I thought I did.
— You thought so. But he’s already making decisions about your property and even consulting your uncle about it. That’s quite something. You have two options. The first, and simplest: tell both your fiancé and your uncle to get lost and live your life in peace.
Mila clasped her fingers tightly.
— And the second option?
— The second is more complicated. For those who believe in love but want to be cautious. It’s called a prenuptial agreement. You and your fiancé go to a notary and write down: this amount from selling my personal apartment is my personal contribution to the new place, and in case anything happens, that share isn’t up for division. Or, you set it up so the apartment is divided according to who paid what. The notary will explain all the options.
— He… he’s not going to agree to that. He’ll say I don’t trust him.
Arkady Lvovich chuckled.
— And do you trust him? After he’s already dividing up your wealth behind your back with your uncle? Real trust would be if he said first: “Sweetheart, this is your apartment, let’s have your share notarized so you feel secure.” Anything else? That’s not trust—that’s him trying to take advantage of you. It’s your choice. The consultation is five thousand.
That evening, Egor was in a fantastic mood. He even downloaded some apartment layouts onto his phone.
— Look at this one! The kitchen-living room is twenty square meters! A dream come true!
Mila sat down across from him.
— Egor. I’m not going to sell my apartment.
He froze. His smile slowly faded from his face.
— What do you mean? What’s going on? I already told all our friends we’re moving to a bigger place!
— You told your friends without even asking me?
— What’s there to ask? Isn’t it obvious? I’m doing this for us!
— Alright. There’s another option. I’m fine with this plan, but only on one condition.
Egor leaned in, looking tense.
— What condition?
— We go to the notary and sign a prenuptial agreement.
Silence. Egor blinked. Then blinked again.
— What?
— A prenuptial agreement. Where we clearly write that the money from selling my apartment is my personal contribution. And my share in the new apartment will match that contribution.
Egor’s face turned grim.
— Are you… are you serious? A prenuptial agreement? Mila, are you out of your mind? Are you marrying me or setting up a business deal? You’re already trying to split everything before we’re even wed!
— You’re the one who started splitting things, Egor! You and my uncle! You’ve already divided up my apartment without me!
— I was thinking about our family, you fool! About our future! And what about you? Just thinking how to grab more in case of divorce?!
He jumped up, knocking over his chair. It crashed to the floor—Mila flinched.
“So this is how you ‘trust’ me? This is how you ‘love’ me? I see how it is with you. My mom was right when she said you’d latch on to this damn apartment!”
He kept shouting, going on about how she was only after money, how she couldn’t be trusted, how she’d broken his heart.
Mila just sat there, silently staring at one spot. Her heart wasn’t hurting. Inside, she felt empty—and in a strange, wrong way, almost relieved.
After he finally ran out of steam, Mila quietly said:
“Pack your things.”
“What?”
“Your things. Pack up. And leave.”
“You’re kicking me out? All because of some paperwork?”
“It’s not about paperwork. It’s about the fact that you were ready to lie to me. You, my uncle… all of you. There won’t be a wedding.”
He left an hour later, slamming the door behind him. Her phone wouldn’t stop ringing—his mom, Uncle Vitya. Mila didn’t answer.
Mila walked through her tiny apartment, straightening an old photo on the wall where she and her grandma were laughing. She went to the window. People hurried on the street below, streetlights glowing. She made herself tea in her grandma’s favorite cup, then sat on the sofa and stretched out her legs.
Better to be here now than end up renting a room in a dorm later.
