The kitchen at the back of the house felt warmer than the rest of the building, not the pleasant warmth of a home where dinner was being prepared, but the thick, uncomfortable heat that seemed to linger around soap, steam, and the smell of metal pans that had been scrubbed far too many times in a single day. When I stepped quietly through the narrow doorway that led from the hallway into that small service kitchen, I had expected to find a maid finishing the dishes after what appeared to be a gathering upstairs. Instead, the sight that greeted me held me in place so suddenly that my hand remained frozen on the doorframe.
Bent over the stainless-steel sink was my wife. Her name was Meredith Holloway, and for a moment I struggled to reconcile the woman before me with the woman I had left behind months earlier when work had carried me across the country for a long-term contract. Meredith’s sleeves were rolled above her elbows, exposing skin that had turned red from hot water and scrubbing.
Her hair, which she usually tied neatly in the mornings, had been pulled back quickly, with loose strands clinging to her temples. The dress she wore was one I had bought her the previous autumn, a soft blue dress she had once laughed about because she said it made her feel too elegant for ordinary days. Now it carried faint stains and signs of wear that suggested it had been used for chores rather than afternoons in town.
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. “Okay,” she murmured softly.
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