The Times: I’ve been married for 5 years… now I want a postnup
Marriage is arguably the biggest financial contract most of us will ever sign. The only one we hope ends in death. And yet, who reads the small print? We write wills, invest in insurance and plan pensions. But we largely overlook what happens if something other than “till death do us part” happens.
As a 39-year-old wife and mother, with breasts like bean bags and the first wave of divorces dividing our cohort, I’m kicking off my own postnup discussion. On a ‘luxurious’ kid-free 3-hour commute. Ironically, to a wedding.
You might’ve heard of a prenup – short for “prenuptial agreement” – which is signed before marriage. It records how a couple want their money, property and other assets, like businesses, to be dealt with if the marriage ends. A “postnup” is the same thing, but retrospectively.
You might ask why throw the cat amongst the pigeons by broaching this seriously awkward conversation? It was my idea after a friend had one written up. My husband was a bit bemused at the suggestion, but he’s a pragmatist. When you see “happily ever after” unravel for those around you, it begs the question - what happens ‘if’?
I personally understand the pain that comes with having a separated family. My parents split up when I was 10. I’ll never forget the night they broke the news. Returning from a canal barge holiday (go figure). When I took a bread knife and ran, sobbing, into a darkening back garden because it genuinely felt like my world had ended. Fortunately, it hadn’t. Because my parents did the seemingly impossible - they "consciously uncoupled”. Divorced amicably. Without mediators, court or a custody battle. Unlike my husband’s family split. His parents barely spoke for years after their divorce settlement.
Harry and I have been married for 5 years. We’re both entrepreneurs — he's run his architectural lighting business since university, and I have a corporate training company. We have two young daughters, and for the record, our relationship is in good shape.
I believe that having this conversation is one of the most romantic things we’ve ever done. The aim is that it brings us closer together. Make us more of a unit. By stating in black and white our expectations and defining the different, and equal, contributions we’re committing to. As we build a joint future and family. Together. 50:50. A two-man dream team.
This is the biggest bet you’ll ever take. That of the 8 billion other people on the planet, this is the one you choose to ride and die with. On this wild rollercoaster of life, the person you’d share DNA with. Who you hope to wake up with every day for as long as you both shall live. Until, in whose arms, death us do part.
Sadly, the statistics say otherwise. Take a friendship group of ten couples. The Office For National Statistics (ONS) says twenty-five years later, around four will have divorced. Of the six still standing, not all will be happily married. Utopia obviously isn’t staying married. It’s staying happily so.
Like most Brits, we don't have a prenup. Even though almost half (42%) of us think nuptial agreements are a good idea, fewer than one in five young married adults actually sign one. Partly because they’re not legally binding. But right now The Government is consulting on making them more so in England & Wales (closes 14th August).
When getting married, few of us really realise what we’re formally signing up to. We might share a surname (we don’t). Or a mortgage. Have children. But did anyone actively investigate how it affects our legal status? It’s not like you get a booklet at the registry office explaining the terms. Unlike a mortgage. Or even a credit card.
When saying “I do”, we’re opting into a legal framework created over hundreds of years. A system of protection. Did anyone say when engaged: “these are the legal consequences of becoming husband and wife. Are you sure you’re in?” Deal, or no deal. A loved one getting divorced said recently: “it’s so easy to get married and so difficult to get divorced”. Especially if there are children involved.
Then there’s the money. Money makes everyone ugly. Greedy and green-eyed. Contrary to popular belief, family law doesn’t simply state “split everything down the middle”. But when you sign those papers, you’re agreeing that if you part later, the financial implication should be fair — accounting for children, pensions, businesses, earning capacity, health, and housing needs. Meaning most of us enter marriage without truly understanding the financial consequences if it ends.
And then there’s gender dynamics. The ONS shows 5 years after having her first baby, a woman earns 42% less (£1,051) per month than she did pre-birth. Her partner’s trajectory? Broadly unchanged. Since our children were born, I became their primary care giver. Running my business, Badass Unicorn, 25-hours-a-week, to be around for our kids while Harry works full-time. Embarking on this process forced us to ask ourselves — how do we want to raise them? I could earn more if I worked more. But then we’d need a nanny or rely heavily on wraparound care. Which isn’t how we want our kids growing up. The reality has repercussions on my long-term earning potential. I explained during one of the exchange's more sanguine moments; “before we had children, professionally we were equals. After our two daughters were born, we were not. Imagine having this conversation with the girls in 25 years time. What would you think then?”
The conversation was difficult. Confronting. At points heated. But I’d give us an 8/10 for maturity. I mean, apart from the bit when I screeched; “so, shall I send you an invoice for all my unpaid labour.” And he snarled incredulously: “you seriously want 50% of my company?” After which I retorted, if only quite so pithily: “Well yeah — if you want 50% of your kids”.
We arrived at the wedding feeling more connected. Seen. Held. With the quiet confidence that comes from knowing you can do hard things. For now, we’ve decided to draw up a letter of intent versus engage in a formal postnup. I feel reassured since having a better understanding of my legal position if things went south. And hopeful that the fact we’re having this discussion before we need it means we’re less likely to need it at all.