Written as a response to the Muse on Monday prompt for May 4, 2026: Write a story that has to do with household chores

My Sister’s Keeper

I dip my hands into the scalding dishwater. As hot as you can stand it, my mother always said.

“I’ve been taking care of her for my whole life. I mean, who else is there? She’s my twin, after all.”

I scrub the heavy bowl, the heavy scent of old blood mixing with the bright citrus dish soap smell.

“I remember my mom telling me that we had the same DNA. That means we’re the same inside. You wouldn’t know it, looking at us. Me at five-six and Jessie topping seven-two, at least last time anyone took the trouble to measure her. But I guess it’s what’s on the inside that matters after all.”

Next comes the mug. I heft it into the sink, careful not to let it chip. This is Jessie’s favorite mug. It holds five pints.

“They knew right away that something was different about her. The doctors couldn’t tell why exactly. That’s what my mom said. I wouldn’t let anyone bully her when we were young but soon it was her keeping them from bullying me. Right up until the fourth grade when the incident happened.

I wash my cup and dishes, like toys next to Jessie’s. It makes me feel delicate. Pretty, even.

“Katie Svensen was the one who started it, of course. She was always picking at me and Jessie. Finally, Jessie just picked her up and threw her. I never found out what happened to her, if she died or not. We moved the next week, and Jessie went to the institute.”

The butcher knives are next. I wash them carefully, scouring the blades until they gleam in the late afternoon sun coming in through the grimy window. I dry them well and set them on their hooks with the fork and spoon that Jessie never uses.

“That was life for the next few years, me alone at school and Jessie inside those cruel walls. We visited her as often as Mom could get time off, but it was never enough. I hated seeing her locked up like that, no room or chair big enough for her, always stooping, hunched over. That’s no way to live. When I was eighteen, we got a call that she’d escaped. I cried for relief when she showed up, half-naked and freezing but alive and free. I didn’t tell Mom. I found this place up here in the middle of nowhere and we’ve been here ever since. Just the two of us.”

I let out the water and dry my hands on the worn dish towel.

The reporter perched on the edge of the stool is staring at me. “That’s incredible. And you really want me to write a story about you, about the both of you?”

I give him a crooked smile. “Nah, I just like someone to talk to while I’m doing the dishes.”

A shadow falls over the reporter. He looks up as fear and realization dawn in his expression.

“He’s all yours, Jessie,” I say. I should go start on the laundry, I suppose.