Masha had been hiding chest pain for six months. On the highway in their foreign car, everything went wrong.

— Anton! I feel so bad… — Masha cried out, each word ripped from a torn heart.

Her fingers, gripping the steering wheel, turned marble white, as if not blood but ice flowed through them. In her chest — not just pain, but hellish torture: as if steel clamps had sunk into her heart, slowly tightening, twisting, tearing it apart. Every breath was a feat, every heartbeat a harbinger of disaster.

— What? Masha! Stop the car! Now! — Anton shouted, his voice shaking with fear.
— I can’t… — she whispered, her lips moved, but her legs seemed glued to the pedals. — My legs… they won’t listen… I can’t feel them…

He lunged for the wheel, grabbing it over her hands, feeling the cold tremor of the metal and his wife’s body. The car, like a wounded beast, swerved on the road, jerked left, nearly crashing into a huge truck whose horn ripped the air like a gunshot. Angry horns blared behind them — drivers slammed their brakes in panic.

— Brake! Get to the shoulder! Hurry! — Anton yelled, trying to straighten the course.
With trembling hands, Masha barely managed to steer to the side. The car stopped as if exhaling its last breath. Masha collapsed back in the seat, gasping for air like a drowning person. Her face was ashen, lips turning blue, eyes rolling back.
— Breathe! Masha, breathe! Deeper! — Anton shook her shoulders, but she didn’t respond.

He jumped out, ran around, yanked open the door. Masha was nearly unconscious — pale, cold, the pulse at her neck beating like a frantic drum, ragged and uneven, as if her heart wanted to escape the body that betrayed it.

— Enough! Switch seats! I’m driving! — he barked, lifting his wife in his arms like a child.
— Anton… you’ve been drinking… — she rasped, trying to resist.
— I don’t care! I don’t care about anything! We’re going to the hospital! Now! — His voice trembled, but iron determination rang through it.

He settled her in the passenger seat, slammed the door, jumped behind the wheel. The engine roared, he floored the gas. The speedometer needle soared — 120, 140, 160 km/h. Wind battered the windshield, the car growled like an enraged animal. Masha moaned, clutching her chest as if to keep her heart from bursting out.

— Hold on, my love… just ten minutes… we’re almost there… — Anton murmured, gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles whitened.
— Anton… if something happens… the kids… take care of them… — she forced out, tears glinting in her eyes.
— Shut up! — he shouted, tears streaming down his face. — No “if”! You’ll live! You’ll live a hundred years! Hear me? Do you hear me?!

But inside, he prayed: Just let us make it. Please, don’t let it be too late. Please, heart, don’t give out…

It began six months ago. After their second child was born. After the birth of Sergey — a big baby, 4.2 kg, the labor lasted two days, with emergency stimulation, almost a C-section. Masha left the hospital on crutches, spent a week bedridden. Her body was wrung out like a rag.

Then, a month later — the first attack. At night. She woke up to her heart pounding as if it wanted to leap from her chest. It thudded, raced, burst forward. It felt like it would explode.
— Anton! Call an ambulance! — she gasped.
— What’s wrong? — He jumped up, bewildered.
— My heart… it’s going to burst…
He reached for the phone, but by the time he found it, the pain had subsided. Masha sat up, drank some water, calmed herself.

— It’s over… probably stress. Too nervous.
— Are you sure? Should I call anyway?
— No need. We’ll wake Sergey. We can go tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came. In the morning Anton insisted — to the doctor, to the cardiologist, to the therapist. But Masha waved him off like an annoying fly.
— No time, Anton. Kids, home, chores… I’ll go later.

“Later” stretched into months. She never went. She was afraid. What if it’s serious? What if surgery? Who will take care of the children? Who will run the house? Who if she’s gone?

The attacks came back. First once a week. Then two, three times. Then daily. Masha learned to cope: breathe deeply, cough, press on her chest, take heart drops. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes not.
Anton saw it. He saw everything. Saw her grow pale, sweat, clutch her chest in her sleep. But he stayed silent. He was afraid too. Afraid to hear the truth. Easier to pretend it was just fatigue, that it would pass, that her body was “adjusting.”

— Masha, maybe you should get checked? — he asked, trying not to sound accusing.
— Why? It’ll pass on its own. After childbirth, everything adjusts, — she dismissed it.
— It’s been six months adjusting, — he remarked bitterly.

— So what? Lena had headaches for a year after her second child. It went away.
And so it went each time. Excuses. Justifications. Fear stronger than pain, stronger than reason, stronger than love.

The fishing trip was spontaneous. Friday, kids at grandma’s, the sun pouring gold, the sky clear as glass. Perfect weather.
— Let’s go to the lake? — Anton suggested.

— Let’s! We need a break from the city, — Masha smiled.
They packed the tent, sleeping bags, rods, grill, food, wine. Masha felt almost happy. She was surprised — not a single attack all week.
— See? I told you — it goes away on its own! — she laughed.
— God willing, — Anton muttered, but doubt gnawed at him.

The lake greeted them with silence, pine scent, freshness. Birds sang, the wind whispered in the reeds. They set up the tent, lit the fire. Anton fished, Masha cooked soup.
By evening — kebabs, baked potatoes, beer for Anton, herbal tea for Masha. They sat by the fire, watched the stars hanging so low it seemed you could touch them.

— It’s so nice… — Anton sighed. — We need to do this more often.

— I agree. Just harder with the kids.
— They’ll grow. We’ll come as a family.
They went to sleep in the tent, happy, relaxed. In the morning — a swim in the cool water, sunbathing, laughter, grilled meat. Masha felt young, strong, alive.
— Maybe it really is over? — she thought, watching Anton. — Maybe I was afraid for nothing?

They packed up around noon. Anton had three beers — not drunk, but unfit to drive.
— You drive, Mash?
— Of course, — she smiled.
The first hour was easy. They laughed, reminisced, planned vacations. Then — silence. And in that silence — the first needles in her chest. Light, almost unnoticeable.
— Anton, open the window. It’s stuffy, — she said.
— Turn on the A/C.

— Doesn’t help.
There was air, but her lungs refused it. Her heart raced — 120, 140, 160 beats per minute. Then — a blow. Like a sledgehammer to the chest. Masha cried out.
— What?! Masha! What?!
— My heart… Anton… I feel bad… — she rasped…

Then it was like a nightmare. The shoulder of the road. Switching seats. A mad dash. Wind, the car, shouting, sirens.

Traffic police stopped them at the entrance to the city.

— Driver, your papers!

— To the hospital! My wife is sick! — Anton yelled.

The officer looked inside. He saw Masha — gray-faced, blue-lipped, struggling to breathe. Without a word, he turned on the siren.

— Follow us! Stay behind us!

They made it in five minutes. The ER: shouting, stretchers, doctors.

— What happened?

— Her heart! She’s been having attacks for six months!

— After childbirth?

— Yes…

— Did you see a cardiologist?

— No…

The doctor shook his head. Masha was already on a gurney, being rushed to intensive care.

— Anton… — she whispered.

— I’m here! Don’t be afraid! Everything will be fine!

— The kids…

— Don’t think about them! Think about yourself!

They took her away. Anton stayed in the hallway. He sat on a bench, head in his hands. His heart was breaking.

Fool. Idiot. He should have dragged her to the doctor. Insisted. Begged. Instead, he believed in “it will pass.”

An hour. Two. Three. No one came out.

By evening, a young, tired doctor appeared.

— Are you the husband?

— Yes! How is she?

— It’s serious. Postpartum dilated cardiomyopathy. Her heart is enlarged, ejection fraction — 30%. That means the heart is working at a third of normal capacity.

— What does that mean?

— We’ll stabilize her now. Then — surgery. Possibly a pacemaker. Or… — he hesitated, — a transplant.

Anton sank down. His world collapsed.

He called his mother-in-law.

— Mom, we’re in the hospital. Masha… it’s her heart.

— My God! What happened?

— An attack. She’s in intensive care.

— We’re coming!

— Don’t. Don’t leave the kids. I’m here.

The night dragged like eternity. Anton drank coffee, paced, made calls.

— Her condition is stable. Wait.

By morning, an older doctor came out.