“Son, maybe I could go to the seaside with you while Dasha is in the hospital? Why let the vouchers go to waste?”
When Dasha married Artyom, many of her friends envied her in a good way. Her husband was calm, hardworking, not the sort who liked to hang out in company or squander money.
And most importantly — her mother-in-law welcomed the bride so warmly that at first Dasha could hardly believe her luck. It seemed that Nina Viktorovna had found in her a true daughter.
“Well, at last there’s a woman in my house,” she laughed, patting Dasha on the shoulder. “With two men I’d gone quite wild here, always doing everything myself. Now we’ll bake pies together!”
Dasha smiled back and felt how sincerely her mother-in-law reached out to her. She herself was an orphan, had lost her parents early, and that tender “little daughter” Nina Viktorovna used to call her warmed her heart especially.
The first year of married life flew by quickly and almost unnoticed. The young couple were settling into their two-room apartment, rejoicing over each new piece of furniture, choosing curtains, arguing over the color of the throw in the living room.
In the evenings they often dropped by Nina Viktorovna’s for tea: she lived nearby with her younger son, in the next block. The house always smelled of baked goods, and a samovar invariably stood on the table — a habit she had kept since her youth.
“Artyom’s been drinking tea by the gallon since childhood,” she would say mischievously, pouring more boiling water. “I used to think there wasn’t blood in his veins but tea leaves.”
Artyom would snort, pretend to be offended, but he always held out his cup. Dasha sat beside him, listened to their chatter, and felt happy: in their family everything was so smooth, without the constant quarrels and grievances she often heard about from friends.
A year passed. With spring’s arrival Dasha suggested to her husband:
“Tema, why don’t we go to the seaside this summer? We’ve never really had a proper vacation together.”
Though the idea was unexpected, Artyom supported his wife:
“Great idea! At work it’s still possible to get leave for the right dates. Let’s look for a package.”
They spent the whole evening with the laptop, choosing where to go. Sochi, then Anapa, then Crimea — pictures of beaches flashed on the screen one after another. Dasha was already imagining sitting at the water’s edge, squinting against the sun and feeling the hot sand under her feet.
Of course, they told their mother-in-law about their plans. Nina Viktorovna listened attentively, nodded, then suddenly clapped her hands and dramatically folded them:
“Oh, how I’d love to go with you… I’ve only seen the sea once in my life. I was just a girl then, seventeen maybe. And since then I’ve dreamed of going at least one more time.”
There was a pause. Dasha gave an awkward smile, Artyom hesitated. He understood his mother was speaking sincerely, but they still imagined spending their holiday alone.
“Mum,” he began cautiously, “let’s do this: we’ll go now, and later I’ll buy you a package separately. I promise. It’s just that this time we wanted to rest together… You understand?”
“I understand everything,” Nina Viktorovna waved it off quickly. “I’m not a child. Of course, young people need to spend more time together. Go, I’ll only be happy for you.”
She spoke calmly, yet a shadow crossed her eyes — regret, perhaps annoyance. Dasha noticed but said nothing. She decided it was natural: anyone would feel a pang if others went off to have fun while you stayed home.
And so the matter seemed settled. Dasha and Artyom went on preparing for the trip. In the evenings they discussed which excursions they would take, where they would sample local cuisine.
Dasha laughed that she would definitely eat corn on the beach, even if it was cliché. Artyom promised he would definitely take her out on a pedal boat.
Their little apartment came alive in a new way during those days: a suitcase stood in the hallway, a mountain of clothes piled up on the sofa, Dasha kept rearranging things, trying outfits on, spinning before the mirror. Artyom jokingly grumbled:
“It looks like we’re preparing for a whole expedition to the Moon, not a two-week beach holiday.”
“You don’t understand anything,” she smiled. “A woman at the seaside without these little things is like a fish out of water.”
They laughed, made plans, argued over trifles — it was all so homely and joyful.
A few days before the trip, Nina Viktorovna unexpectedly called. Her voice sounded solemn, even a bit excited.
“Artyom, come over with Dasha. I have a reason.”
“What reason?” he asked in surprise.
“A secret!” his mother laughed. “I’ll tell you later, just make sure you come.”
That evening they went. Nina Viktorovna met them at the door with such a radiant face that Dasha immediately thought: could she have met a man? But it turned out otherwise: the mother-in-law proudly announced that she had landed a remote job.
Now she didn’t need to get up early or rush anywhere; she would have much more free time.
“I’ve dreamed of this for so long,” she admitted, pouring tea. “And now it’s come true. I sit at the computer, and the money trickles in. Wonderful!”
She laughed, gesturing animatedly, and it seemed she had become a few years younger.
On the table stood a large, golden-brown pie giving off a sweet aroma. Nina Viktorovna proudly set it in the center and said:
“Here, I baked it myself, an old family recipe. Help yourselves, my dears!”
The atmosphere was wonderfully warm. They drank tea, talked, laughed. Artyom kept tossing in witty remarks, Dasha joined the conversation. Everything seemed perfect.
And yet, at some point, Dasha felt that Nina Viktorovna was looking at her a little too intently, as if waiting for something. She quickly brushed the thought aside — what nonsense! Her mother-in-law was just in high spirits.
Dasha put a slice of pie on her plate, and the sweet aroma became even richer. She took a small bite, washed it down with hot tea, and smiled at her mother-in-law:
“It’s delicious, thank you!”
Artyom also praised his mother:
“Mum, as always, you’ve outdone yourself.”
The pie was indeed soft, tender, and very tasty. But before Dasha could finish her piece, she felt a strange scratchiness in her throat. At first she thought she had burned herself with the hot tea, but the unpleasant sensation quickly grew stronger.
“My throat… feels scratchy,” she whispered, raising her eyes to her husband.
Artyom frowned:
“Are you okay? Maybe some water?”
But within a minute it became hard for Dasha to breathe. Her face turned pale, red blotches appeared on her skin.
“Dashka!” Artyom shouted, jumping up from the table.
She tried to inhale, but it was as if no air was passing through. Her lips began to turn blue.
“God, what’s happening to her?!” cried Nina Viktorovna, clutching her head…
“Allergy…” Dasha rasped before she completely lost the ability to speak.
Artyom understood instantly. He leapt up, scooped his wife into his arms, and practically ran to the car.
His head was buzzing, his heart pounded so hard it felt as if it would burst from his chest. He knew: since childhood Dasha had had a severe allergy to honey. Back in the orphanage she had once been taken to the hospital — the doctors barely saved her.
Later, there had been another episode when they were already dating — not as serious, but Artyom remembered it for life: even a drop of honey could have terrifying consequences. They had warned his mother about it.
With every second Dasha grew worse: her eyes rolled back, her breathing faltered. He held her hand and repeated, like a spell:
“Hold on, darling, just a little more, just a bit longer…”
Rain lashed his face, but Artyom didn’t even notice. Only one thought hammered in his head: faster — just make it in time.
The drive to the nearest hospital took ten minutes, though it felt like an eternity. Dasha wheezed, gasping for air, her body shaking with tremors.
“It’s okay, we’re almost there,” Artyom tried to reassure her, though he was on the brink of panic himself.
Rushing into the hospital with Dasha in his arms, he shouted from the doorway:
“Doctor! Urgent! Allergy!”
A nurse and a doctor in a white coat ran to meet him. They quickly laid Dasha on a gurney and pushed Artyom aside.
He caught only fragments of phrases: “pressure dropping,” “oxygen,” “get an IV started.” His heart threatened to leap from his chest. He paced the corridor, unable to stand still, noticing how his hands shook uncontrollably.
Suddenly he heard hurried footsteps behind him — it was Nina Viktorovna, out of breath.
“Artyom! What’s happening to her?” Real fear shone in his mother’s eyes.
“Mama,” he turned toward her, his face twisted with pain, “you knew! You knew Dasha was allergic!”
She waved her hands:
“Artyomka, I… I didn’t think! It completely slipped my mind!” she babbled. “The recipe is old, from my grandmother — I’ve always added honey to it!”
He clenched his fists but said nothing. At that moment, the doctor emerged from intensive care.
“Her condition is extremely serious,” he said gravely. “But we’ve done everything necessary. Your wife is lucky you brought her so quickly. Now we can only observe and wait for stabilization.”
Artyom nodded, barely holding back tears.
The clock in the corridor ticked loudly, like hammer blows. From time to time doctors and nurses passed by, but for Artyom the world had narrowed to that one door.
Nina Viktorovna sat nearby, whispering prayers. Then, cautiously, she said:
“Son… since it’s turned out this way, maybe I could go to the seaside with you while Dasha’s in the hospital? Why let the vouchers go to waste?”
Artyom turned to her with such a look that she caught her breath.
“Are you serious?” His voice was low and hoarse. “Dasha’s in there, between life and death, and you’re thinking about the sea?!”
Nina Viktorovna lowered her eyes and didn’t utter another word.
The night was long. Artyom never left the hospital; he sat on a chair, his eyes fixed on the door. When at last they were allowed in, he saw Dasha under an IV drip, pale but alive.
“My love,” he whispered, taking her hand. “Can you hear me?”
She gave the faintest nod. Tears of relief rolled down his cheeks.
Gradually Dasha’s condition improved. The swelling subsided, her breathing evened out. Artyom stayed with her all the while: bringing water, adjusting her pillow, or simply sitting, holding her hand.
Nina Viktorovna came too. She wept, begged forgiveness, swore it had been an accident.
“Forgive me, dear girl, silly old woman that I am,” she said, wiping away tears. “It completely slipped my mind that you couldn’t have honey. What kind of mother am I, not keeping track! I’m guilty, I know… but I meant no harm, no harm at all! Believe me, I wouldn’t wish this on anyone…”
Her words poured out in a stream; she sobbed, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Yet among them slipped something else:
“Pity the holiday’s ruined… it’s a shame Artyom refused to go with me.”
Dasha listened silently, but inside she felt a chill. She could no longer believe it had been mere forgetfulness.
When her strength began to return, Dasha finally dared to speak to Artyom:
“You know, Tyoma, I’ve decided I won’t go to your mother’s anymore. And I won’t eat anything she offers — even if it upsets you.”
Artyom sat beside her, took her hand.
“Of course. I don’t want you going there either.”
She nodded, tears glinting in her eyes.
“Thank you for being here.”
Artyom squeezed her hand tighter, as if vowing never to let go.
They returned the vouchers. The seaside was no longer mentioned. Every day Artyom stayed with his wife, forgetting about work and everything else.
“The main thing is that you’re alive and well,” he told Dasha. “As for a holiday… we’ll go, as soon as you’re strong enough.”
Nina Viktorovna called to ask after her health, brought fruit and juice, but Dasha no longer took a single bite from her hands.
When Dasha was discharged from the hospital, Artyom practically carried her in his arms: he cooked, cleaned, and wouldn’t let her exert herself unnecessarily.
Gradually, Dasha began to recover: she took evening walks with Artyom, once again enjoying the little things — the scent of linden trees in the park, a funny movie, a new book. Dasha didn’t even mention the seaside, but one evening Artyom came up to her with his phone in hand:
“Look what I found. There are some good tours in August. We still have time.”
“Are you serious?” she widened her eyes.
“Absolutely. I don’t want this summer to be remembered only for hospitals and tears. We’ve earned our vacation.”
And soon they were strolling along a bustling promenade, holding hands. A warm breeze playfully ruffled their hair, the calming sound of the surf drowned out all unwanted thoughts, setting them in a mood of serene lightness. Dasha slipped off her sandals and walked barefoot on the hot sand.
“This is happiness!” she said and laughed.
They spent a week by the sea — swimming, sunbathing, taking photos. For the first time in a long while, Dasha felt free and truly happy.
