Is she so dissimilar to the wife who stays deadbolted in loveless wedlock?  Both selling the same services for security when they bump and grind in expertly prostituted boredom. One for the harvest her attorney husband yields. The other equally incomed but independently cultivating her own clients in a career lawfully sanctioned, if not quite socially acceptable.
        
Then why do I care when she tells her story? How some of the seeds she sows come from boys young enough to be her son. Rich kids from other countries who get legally looped on local pot.  Then come to her to get legally laid.  And the others, whose washing of private parts won't wipe away flatulent disrespect or the rancor of rotting teeth.  But she has options the housewife hasn't.  Power to impart the rules.  To refuse her patrons.  A panic button that replaces the pimp whose price for protection of her kind in other cultures is possession.
        
Then why do I care about her career choice? When husbands pack paychecks as part of their baggage. And their wives have no lifework beyond the home.  When waitressing won't foster a family of four. But this ex-wife with a covert career can buy braces, bicycles and Belgian chocolate for her children.   One of whom asked if she was a whore, as she sprinkled his breakfast toast with hagelslag that matched the brown of her bludgeoned eye. A temporary badge of brutal and perpetual possibilities when police take a little too long to answer her panic button alarm.
        
Maybe I care because she can't. Her tears long ago dried upby a double life that desiccated her soul. Left it defunct like all those aborted fetuses. Conceivably she doesn't cry because she doesn't feel sad or bad or sorry. Her sympathy saved for the wife who aborts the baby because she knows precisely who the father is. He's the one who broke the arm that forgot to put hagelslag on his toast. But that wife's house has no panic button.  Humiliation and fear prop her head high in hypocrisy as she fabricates a fall down the stairs.  Descending into a different form of double life.