Friday evening.

You, your dad, and your mom are at home. A movie is playing. Mom calls Dad into the kitchen—"help me with the jar," as always. He leaves his phone on the couch. A few seconds later, a message pops up. You can’t resist—you pick up his phone and open it.

A photo.

A close-up of a wet, open framed by elegant, manicured fingers.

The caption reads:

"Darling, I want you to lick me this weekend. See how wet I am?"

Sender: Francesca — Pilates instructor.

You’re in shock. Silently, you delete the message.

It all adds up now—his "workouts," the new sneakers, the inappropriate pheromone deodorant.

You find the address—in messages, in her profile, in the phone’s memory.

It’s simple: Saturday, during the day, she has an appointment.

You decide to go in his place.

Saturday. Day.

You’re standing at her door. She opens it—wearing a house robe, a faint smile on her lips.

"You're early..." she says, then freezes, not recognizing you.

You step inside calmly, walking deeper into the apartment.

"He’s not coming. I’m his son. And I know everything..."

A pause. Tension. The air gets thicker.

She says nothing. Doesn’t push you away. Just bites her lip. Her eyes glisten.

"I’m not here to ruin anyone’s life...

...if you’ll let me give you what you so badly wanted from him."

She steps aside, letting you in.