I’m Lyubochka Zaitseva.
108 kilograms, a red car, and three suitcases of problems that I’m taking to the countryside to close the so-called gestalt.
The psychologist said—need to. I agreed.
A temporary lapse of sanity, it happens.
For fifteen years, I built a life in which there was no place for either this village or for the man who once called me the Fat Zaitseva and, at the same time, somehow managed to be my first love.
At the same time! Yes, I know how it sounds.
Sergey Latyshev didn’t go anywhere.
He stayed and, within the first twenty minutes of my return, pulled up in my car—on a rusty tractor.
They say one step from hate to love.
But how many steps are there from love to hate—and back again?