A mountain of pans waited beside the sink as if someone had decided that this work, and only this work, belonged to her.
She did not notice me at first.
She continued scrubbing in the quiet, methodical rhythm of someone who had learned to keep working without asking questions.
Then a sharp voice cut through the room.
“Meredith! Don’t forget the serving trays when you’re done there.”
The voice came from the doorway behind her.
I did not need to turn to know who it was.
My younger sister, Allison Reed, stood leaning against the frame with the kind of polished confidence that suggested she had spent the evening entertaining guests rather than washing dishes. She wore a fitted black dress and carefully applied makeup, as though she were preparing for a formal reception rather than giving orders in someone else’s kitchen.
“And once the kitchen’s finished,” she added impatiently, “go clean the patio too. It’s a mess out there.”
Meredith nodded without lifting her head.
