Two Columns
She has already kicked off her boots and put the kettle on when her managers message pops up in her phone: Can you cover for Sarah tomorrow? Shes come down with a fever and theres no one else to take her shift. Her hands are still damp from the sink, so now the screen is smeared. She wipes her palms on the tea towel, checks her phones calendar. Tomorrow was meant to be her one quiet eveningan early night, no calls, no one else needing hershes got a report to finish in the morning and her head is throbbing.
She starts typing: I cant, I have… and hesitates. That all-too-familiar ache rises in her stomach: if she refuses, shell be letting them down. Thats what it meansyoure not one of those people. She deletes the words, replaces them with a plain: Yes, Ill cover. Sends it.
The kettle rumbles. She pours herself a cup of tea, sits on the stool by the window and pulls up that note on her phonethe one simply titled Good Things. Today already has an entry: Took Sarahs shift. She finishes the line with a full stop, and adds a small plus sign, as if it balances something.
That lists been with her nearly a year now. She started it in January, when the post-Christmas emptiness settled in and she needed proof that her days didnt just blur into nothing. The first entry reads: Gave Mrs. Norris from upstairs a lift to the surgery. Mrs. Norris navigates the stairs slowly, clutching her test results, dreading the bus. Shed buzzed on the entry system and said, Youve got your car today, love, could you give me a lift or Ill never make it in time.” She took her, sat in the car while she had her blood drawn, drove her back home.
On the drive back, she felt herself growing irritablenow shed be late for work, her mind already circling around everyone elses grumbles about waiting rooms and doctors. The irritation shamed her, so she swallowed it down and washed it away with petrol station coffee. In the note, though, she wrote only the good bit, tidily, as if that moment of help was clean and simple.
In February, her son had to travel for work and dropped her grandson off for the weekend. Youre at home, its not a problem for you, he announced, not really asking. The boy was lively, noisy, always look at this, come on, play with me. She adored him, but by evening her hands were shaking with tiredness, her head ringing like after a concert.
She settled him to bed, washed the plates, packed away toysonly for him to tip them out again come morning. On Sunday, when her son collected him, she admitted, Im tired. He grinned, as if shed cracked a joke: Well, youre a grandma, arent you? and kissed her cheek. The note gained a line: Looked after Ben for two days. Next to it, she drew a little heart, so it wouldnt sound as if it was only obligation.
In March, her cousin called asking to borrow money until payday. Its for medicine, you get it, dont you? she said. She did get it. She transferred the money without asking when it would be returned, then sat at her kitchen table doing sumshow to make it through until her wages and give up on the new coat shed wanted since last autumn. The old one wasnt a luxury, just worn and shiny at the elbows.
In her note, she wrote: Helped cousin out. She left out: Put off my own things. That felt too small to mention.
In April, one of the young women at work, eyes red and swollen, got locked in the loo. She was crying quietly, repeating that she’d been dumped and was useless, unwanted. She knocked gently: Open up, Im here. Later, they sat together on the staircase, still smelling of fresh paint, as she listened to the same sad confession over and over, darkness filling the stairwell. She missed her back exercise classthe one the doctor ordered for her pain.
At home, she lay on the sofa, back throbbing. She was annoyednot with the girl, but with herself: Why cant you say I need to go? She added an entry: Listened to Emily, offered support. She used Emilys name because it felt warmer. Again she didnt mention: Missed my own session.
In June, she gave a lift to a colleague loaded with bags for the allotment, her car out of action. The colleague spent the journey on speakerphone, bickering with her husband, not even asking if it was okay. She kept quiet, eyes fixed on the road. At the allotment, her colleague dumped her bags, quick Thanks, it was on your way anyway. It wasnt on her way. She sat in traffic on the return, reached home later than planned, and didnt manage to see her mumwho sulked about it afterwards.
She noted: Took Charlotte to her allotment. That phrase on your way stuck in her mindthe screen glowing long after shed written it.
In August, a late-night call from her mother. The voice is thin, anxious: Im not well darling, my blood pressure again, Im frightened. She threw on a coat, called a cab through empty streets. In her mothers flat, the air is stifling, the blood pressure monitor sits next to scattered tablets. She checked her mothers readings, handed over medicine, sat there while she drifted off to sleep.
Next morning she headed straight to work. Sitting on the Tube, eyes closing, she feared missing her stop. Her note said: Stayed at Mums at night. At first, she added an exclamation mark, but deleted itit felt too loud.
By autumn the list has grown, a scroll unspooling endlessly. The longer it becomes, the more she feels a peculiar unease: as if shes measuring a life by tallying up favours, storing them on her phone for evidencejust in case someone asks: What do you even do with yourself?
She tries to recall the last time that list had anything in it about hertruly about her, for her sake. Every entry is for otherstheir pain, their asks, their plans. Her own wants seem petty, something to hide away.
October brings a quiet rupture that leaves a mark. She drops in on her son to hand over some papers hed asked her to print. Shes standing in the hallway clutching a folder while hes busy searching for keys and nattering on the phone. Her grandson is darting about, pleading for cartoons. Her son, hand over the mouthpiece, throws out: Mum, while youre here, can you pop to the shop? We need milk and bread, not going to have time myself.
She says, Im actually quite tired. He doesnt look at her, shrugs: Well, you can though, cant you? You always can. Back to his call.
It isnt a request, but a statementsealed and stamped. Something rises inside her: heat, then guilt. Guilt for wanting to say no. For not wanting to be the reliable one, the easy option.
Still, she goes to the shop. Buys milk, bread, some applesher grandsons favourite. Drops off the bags, hears a level-toned, Thanks, Mum. It sounds like ticking a box. She gives her smile, the one shes learned, and heads home.
At home, she updates her note: Bought groceries for Tom. She stares at the line. Hands trembling, not from tiredness but anger. Suddenly its clear: the list isnt a reassurance anymore. Its a lead.
Come November, she finally books a doctors appointmentthe back pains too much, she cant stand at the counter for long. She picks a Saturday morning, so she wont have to ask for time off work. That Friday evening, her mum rings: Youre coming by tomorrow, arent you? I need to go to the chemist, and anyway, Im all on my own.
She replies, Im booked in with the GP. Theres a pause, then her mum sighs, Alright. Clearly, Im not needed.
That line always works. She always rushes in to reassure, to rearrange, to promiseher own plans shifted backwards. She opens her mouth to say, Ill come round after, but stops. Its not stubbornness she feelsjust weariness, the realisation that her life has weight too.
Softly, she says, Ill visit after lunch, Mum. I need to see the doctor.
Her mum sighs, as if being left out in the cold. Alright, she says. In that one word is all the old disappointment, pressure, habit.
She sleeps badly that night, dreams of running through endless corridors, carrying folders, doors locking ahead. Morning arrives; she makes herself porridge, swallows the pills that have been sat in the bathroom for months, heads out. In the surgerys waiting room, surrounded by threads of conversation about tests and pensions, she thinks not of the diagnosis but this: she is doing something for herself, and it scares her.
Afterwards, she buys her mums medicine at the chemist, climbs to the third floor. Her mother is silent at first, but asks, So, did you go?
I did, she says. I needed to.
Her mum studies her, as if seeing a person for the first time, not just a function. Then she turns away, heads to the kitchen. On the journey back, some kind of relief settles in her chestnot joy, but space.
By December, as the year runs out, weekends hold promisea chance, not just a pause. One Saturday, her son texts again: Can you take Ben off our hands for a bit? Weve got errands. She reads the message, thumbs itching to type yes.
Perching on the edge of the bed, phone warm in her hand, she pictures what shed planned: a trip into town, the gallery, that exhibition she keeps pushing aside. She wanted to drift between the paintings in silence, with no one asking about socks or whats for dinner.
She writes, I cant today. Ive got my own plans. Hits send, and lays the phone face down as if to shield herself from the reply.
It comes within a minute. Alright, Tom writes. Then, Are you upset?
She flips the phone over, feels that old urge to explain welling upto soften, to justify. She could write a message a mile long: how shes exhausted, that she deserves a life too. But she knows lengthy explanations become negotiations, and she doesnt want to barter away her day.
She writes instead, No. It just matters to me. And nothing else.
She gets readycalmly, as if for work. Checks the irons off, windows closed, purse and card, charger packed. At the bus stop, surrounded by people with shopping and suitcases, she feels itno one she has to rescue, not right now. Unfamiliar, but not frightening.
Inside the gallery, she walks slow. Stares at faces in the portraits, at hands, at slants of light in painted windows. She feels she is relearning attention, but this time focused inward, not outward. In the little café, she sips coffee, buys a print on a thick, textured postcard, tucking it in her bag.
At home, she leaves her phone in her handbag. First, she hangs up her coat, washes her hands, puts on the kettle. Only then does she sit at the table and open her Good Things note. She scrolls to todays date.
For a while, she simply looks at the blank line. Then, she taps in a plus, and writes: Went to the gallery on my own. Didnt put someone elses life before my own.
She hesitates. Those wordsbefore my ownfeel too loud, as though shes accusing someone. She deletes them, rewrites: Went to the gallery on my own. Looked after myself.
Then she does something new. At the top, she adds two headings and splits the list. On the left: For Others. On the right: For Myself.
On the For Myself side, so far, theres only one entry. She looks at it, and feels something set straight inside herlike a spine relaxing after a stretch. She doesnt need to prove to anyone that shes good. What she needs is to remember that shes here.
Her phone buzzes again, but shes in no hurry. She pours her tea, lets the steam rise, only then checks her message. Her mums sent a simple: How are you?
She replies: Im fine. Ill call by tomorrow, bring you a loaf. Then, before she presses send, she adds: I was busy today.
She puts the phone down, screen upwards, by her mug. The room is quiet, and the silence isnt crushing. It feels like a space thats finally been made for her.
