“Earn enough to buy an apartment first, and then open your mouth!” I told my fiancé
Anastasia had bought the two-bedroom apartment on Sadovaya Street entirely on her own. No one had helped her, there had been no joint effort to save for the down payment, and no relatives had lent her money “until payday.”
She had been twenty-seven at the time and worked as a purchasing manager for a construction company. She had taken out a fifteen-year mortgage, and during the first few years, she had barely allowed herself any unnecessary expenses—no vacations abroad, no new electronics, and no spontaneous purchases. Every month, she made the payment and crossed another square out in her notebook. It made it easier to see that the remaining term was getting shorter.
After six years instead of fifteen, the bank sent her a certificate confirming that the mortgage had been fully repaid. That evening, Anastasia made herself some coffee, sat by the window, and stared at the document for a long time, as though it might disappear if she looked away. The apartment was finally and completely hers—the walls, the renovations, every electrical outlet, and every nail.
She met Alexey a year later at a mutual friend’s birthday party. He seemed calm—not the kind of man who began planning a shared future out loud on the very first date, but not cold either. He was simply even-tempered. He laughed quietly, listened attentively, and asked follow-up questions instead of merely nodding for appearance’s sake.
After they had been dating for a couple of months, Alexey said something he would repeat more than once afterward:
“All I need out of all this is you. Everything else may come with it or it may not—it doesn’t matter.”
They never discussed the apartment at all, neither jokingly nor seriously. Alexey never asked how much she paid for utilities, showed no interest in the documents, and never brought up property ownership, even in passing. Anastasia was accustomed to men sometimes testing the waters through exactly those kinds of questions, but over time, she stopped thinking about it. She liked having someone beside her who cared about her rather than her square footage.
After six months together, Alexey proposed. It was an ordinary evening, with no restaurant or flowers scattered across the floor. He simply held out a ring over dinner and said that he saw no point in putting it off any longer. Anastasia accepted immediately.
A month later, Alexey moved his belongings in—three boxes, a suitcase, and an old bicycle, which they placed on the balcony. They began preparing for the wedding: choosing a date, calling banquet halls, and saving money for a photographer. Their life together went smoothly, without arguments or confrontations, as though they had agreed in advance not to give each other unnecessary reasons to become irritated.
Anastasia continued paying for the utilities, internet, groceries, and the bathroom renovation. Alexey did not earn a particularly large salary; he worked as an engineer for a small company. One morning over breakfast, Anastasia carefully asked whether they should divide the expenses equally. Alexey put down his fork and answered calmly:
“Nastya, I’m saving money. I have a separate account, and part of my salary goes into it every month—for our future, for our children, and as an emergency fund. Would you like me to show you the statement?”
He really did show her the statement that time. The numbers on his phone screen looked convincing, and Anastasia felt ashamed for having asked. His explanation seemed reasonable: a man took care of his family not by spending money now, but by saving it for later. She stopped bringing up the subject.
In the evenings, they discussed renovations—whether to replace the wallpaper in the bedroom or leave it as it was, and whether they should change the kitchen cabinets before the wedding. They also talked about children: how many they wanted, when they wanted them, and who would take parental leave. Not once during those months did they argue about who owned the apartment or who was entitled to what. Anastasia was convinced that she and Alexey viewed family life in the same way—calmly, without calculation or hidden motives.
Three weeks before the wedding, Alexey suggested that Anastasia get to know his mother better—not briefly in passing, as before, for five minutes outside the building, but properly, over a meal together.
“Mom wants to spend some time with us and get to know you better. Shall we invite her over this weekend?”
Anastasia agreed without hesitation. She wanted to make a good impression on her future mother-in-law and show her that their home was warm and well cared for, and that guests were welcome there.
On Saturday, Larisa Petrovna arrived carrying two large bags. She had brought homemade jam and a box of chocolates. She kissed Anastasia on both cheeks and complimented the apartment.
“It’s so bright and cozy here. You can immediately tell that the woman of the house puts her heart into her home. Thank you for inviting me, Nastenka. I didn’t expect such a warm welcome.”
The atmosphere at the table remained pleasant and relaxed. They reminisced about Alexey’s childhood—how he had broken a neighbor’s window with a ball when he was six, how he had become interested in building model aircraft at school, and how he had almost failed a semester at university because of his part-time job. Larisa Petrovna told the stories humorously, Alexey blushed and joked in response, and Anastasia laughed along with everyone else.
Then they began talking about the wedding—which flowers they should choose and who should sit beside whom at the table—and about their future vacation. They decided that after registering their marriage, they would go somewhere by the sea for at least a week. Anastasia finally relaxed completely. Everything was developing exactly as she had imagined it would—a peaceful family, mutual respect, and no hidden complications.
The conversation changed suddenly, almost imperceptibly, like the weather changing when a cloud unexpectedly covers the sun. Larisa Petrovna put down her cup of tea, straightened the tablecloth in front of her, and spoke in the same tone she had used a minute earlier when talking about model airplanes.
“Nastenka, have you and Lyosha already thought about how you’re going to arrange your property after the wedding? It’s important for a young family to do everything together and fairly, so there won’t be any hurt feelings later.”
At first, Anastasia did not understand what she meant.
“What property do you mean? All we have for now is this apartment, and I’m the only person registered here.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Larisa Petrovna said, nodding and leaning slightly forward. “I believe it would be right to give Lyosha a share of the apartment before the wedding. Otherwise, he’ll be nobody in his own family—he won’t have a corner of his own or any rights. Is that really fair?”
For the first few seconds, Anastasia took her words for an unsuccessful joke—the kind older female relatives sometimes made without expecting a serious response. She even smiled, expecting Larisa Petrovna to say, “Oh, I was only mentioning it,” or to laugh.
But Larisa Petrovna’s smile remained steady, without the slightest hint of irony.
“Larisa Petrovna, are you being serious?”
“Completely serious, Nastenka. Transfer a share to Lyosha in advance, before you get married. Lawyers say it’s safer for both parties that way. I don’t want anyone reproaching my son later because he lives in someone else’s apartment.”
Anastasia looked at Alexey, expecting him to stop his mother and say that the apartment was Anastasia’s personal property and that the question should never have been raised in the first place.
Instead, Alexey lowered his eyes to his plate, remained silent for a second, and then said:
“Mom is actually right. I live here, I spend money on household needs, and we’re paying for the wedding together. I think that makes me one of the owners of this apartment too, in a way.”
He said it calmly and casually, as though they were discussing how to divide household chores rather than ownership of property for which Anastasia had spent six years paying off a mortgage. She felt as though the air in the room had suddenly grown thicker. She studied Alexey’s face more carefully, looking for even the slightest trace of doubt.
There was none.
“So the two of you discussed this beforehand,” Anastasia said slowly. “Before you sat down at this table.”
“We were simply talking, the way any normal family talks,” Larisa Petrovna interrupted before her son could answer.
Larisa Petrovna continued trying to persuade her. She moved her cup aside and folded her hands on the table as though preparing herself for a lengthy explanation.
“Nastenka, please understand me correctly. I have nothing against you. You’re a good, hardworking young woman. But if everything remains as it is now, it isn’t right. You live together, yet only one of you owns the home. If something happens, Lyosha will end up on the street, without any rights or even a corner of his own. Is that really what you want for your future husband?”
“I want my future husband to trust me instead of treating our life together as a reason to claim something I paid for entirely by myself,” Anastasia replied, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Nastya, nobody is claiming anything,” Alexey interrupted, and for the first time that evening, irritation appeared in his voice. “It would simply be normal to arrange everything fairly, since we’re going to be a family.”
“We aren’t even legally married yet.”
“That’s exactly why you need to settle it now, before the wedding,” Larisa Petrovna said. “So there won’t be any misunderstandings later.”
Anastasia put down her cup more sharply than she intended, causing some tea to spill into the saucer. Ignoring her future mother-in-law, she looked directly at her fiancé and asked bluntly:
“Alexey, do you truly expect to receive a share of my apartment? Answer for yourself, without your mother.”
Alexey did not have time to answer. Larisa Petrovna spoke for him, and her voice immediately became harder, losing the softness with which she had praised the renovations an hour earlier.
“What kind of tone is that, Nastya? You’re interrogating a man in front of his own mother as though he were on trial. He’s been living with you for two years and bringing money into the household, yet you’re questioning him as though he were a stranger.”
“I’m not questioning him. I’m asking about my property.”
“Exactly—‘my property,’” Alexey repeated emphatically, pushing back his chair. “That’s what you always say: ‘my apartment.’ So what am I to you, then—a temporary tenant? We’ve lived together for so long, yet you’re too greedy even to discuss the subject calmly.”
“I’m not being greedy, Alexey. I’m simply not going to give half an apartment to someone I’ve known for two years just because his mother thinks it would be fair.”
“Earn enough to buy an apartment first, and then open your mouth!” she told her fiancé.
The words came out more sharply than she had intended—not quite a shout, but something very close to the final straw.
Alexey straightened up. His face immediately flushed red, his lips tightened into a thin line, and his voice, which until then had remained calm and even, rose by an entire octave.
“How dare you talk to me like that?! So I’m nothing to you, is that it? I haven’t earned enough, so that means I don’t have the right to speak?”
The conversation instantly turned into a loud argument—the exact kind of scandal Anastasia had never once imagined taking place within those walls during all the previous months.
“Do you think shouting is going to get you what you want?” Anastasia asked, rising from the table.
“Yes, I’ll get it!” Alexey shouted, slamming his palm against the table so hard that the candy dish jumped. “After the wedding, we’ll arrange everything properly anyway. You won’t have any choice. You’re deliberately turning me into a tenant so you’ll have something to hold over me later!”
“Nobody is turning you into anything. You’re the one who just called yourself that.”
Larisa Petrovna stood up after her son, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked down at Anastasia with undisguised contempt.
“So your greedy nature has finally revealed itself, Nastenka. You thought you were lucky—you found a good man, calm and caring. But you’ve been stringing him along over this apartment for two years, and now you’re surprised that he’s upset.”
“Nobody has been stringing him along, Larisa Petrovna. He never once mentioned this during the past two years, not until you arrived.”
“That means he was embarrassed to ask. His upbringing wouldn’t allow it, and you took advantage of that,” Larisa Petrovna snapped before turning toward her son. “Lyoshenka, I told you from the beginning not to get involved with women like her. They never give up anything that belongs to them, but they don’t want to share it with you either. You can’t marry a woman like that. Remember my words.”
“Mom, wait,” Alexey tried to interrupt, but stopping his mother was no longer so easy.
“What do you mean, ‘wait’? Can’t you see how she talks to you? ‘Earn enough first, and then open your mouth.’ Who does she think she is to speak to you like that?”
As though his mother had given him permission to go all the way, Alexey turned toward Anastasia again and repeated his demand. This time, there was none of his former gentleness. He spoke almost through clenched teeth.
“I need a share of the apartment. We’ll arrange it before the wedding, just as Mom says. Otherwise, I don’t understand why we should get married at all.”
Without saying a word, Anastasia removed the engagement ring from her finger. The movement was unhurried, as though she had always known that sooner or later she would have to do it. The ring lay in her palm like a small, cold circle. She tossed it across the table—not forcefully, but hard enough that Alexey had to catch it in midair to prevent it from rolling underneath the cabinet.
“Pack your things. And your mother can get ready too. Go home together. Get out of here.”
“What are you doing?” Alexey asked in confusion, staring at the ring in his palm as though it were burning his fingers. “Are you serious right now?”
“I have never been more serious.”
“You’ll regret this, Nastya,” Alexey said, trying to add a threatening note to his voice, even though the hand holding the ring was still trembling slightly. “Do you even understand what you’re giving up?”
Anastasia walked over to the front door and opened it. A draft immediately swept through the hallway, stirring the edge of the tablecloth Larisa Petrovna had brought that morning.
“There will be no wedding,” Anastasia said calmly, without shouting, pronouncing each word separately as though hammering in nails. “Not tomorrow, not in a month, not ever.”
Alexey continued trying to say something—perhaps to apologize or perhaps to accuse her of greed again. His words became tangled and broke off halfway through. But when he saw the open door and Anastasia’s face, on which there was no trace of her previous confusion, he fell silent.
Larisa Petrovna gave a theatrical snort, picked up the bag containing the unfinished box of chocolates from the table, and was the first to walk out onto the landing. As a final remark, she declared that she would never set foot in this home again, as though it were her own threat rather than a relief to the apartment’s owner.
Alexey followed her, carrying the same suitcase he had brought into the apartment with such a light heart less than two years earlier.
The door slammed shut, and the apartment became unusually quiet—so quiet that Anastasia could hear water dripping from a poorly closed faucet in the kitchen.
She stood in the middle of the room for several minutes, looking at the two empty chairs beside the table and the untouched jar of jam. She did not feel the kind of relief people wrote about in books—there was no lightness and no sense of triumph.
It felt more as though something heavy had just been carried out of the room, something she herself had been carrying for years without ever noticing its weight.
Only later, as she went to bed in her apartment—now completely hers again, without someone else’s suitcases on the balcony or someone else’s savings accounts “for the future”—did Anastasia realize that she had not really lost a fiancé that day.
She would have lost far more if she had married a man who was prepared to claim ownership of something he had neither built nor paid for at the first available opportunity. Their true intentions had been exposed early enough.
Lying in the darkness and listening to the familiar sounds of the home that remained hers, Anastasia finally allowed herself to breathe calmly for the first time that evening.