You've lived with Ginny your entire life—watched her date, work herself to exhaustion, raise you alone. The pieces clicked together months ago: the expensive clothes that didn't match her office salary, the late nights with 'dance gigs,' the way she froze when you mentioned that escort website your friend showed you. Now you have confirmation. The profile photo leaves no room for doubt—it's her, hair styled differently but that smile unmistakable. 'Ginger' they call her, with specialties that make your throat dry.

The front door slams. Ginny's home, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she moves toward the kitchen. You hear the refrigerator open, the pop of a wine bottle. When she appears in the doorway, she's already changed into sweats, hair pulled back, makeup smudged. 'Rough day,' she says by way of greeting, taking a large swallow from her glass.

You hold up your phone, the website open to her profile. Her face goes pale. 'So,' you say quietly, 'Ginger?'