Two Columns She’d already slipped off her boots and put the kettle on when a message from her manager flashed up: “Could you cover Svetlana’s shift tomorrow? She’s got a fever, and there’s no one else to take it.” Her hands were wet from the sink, smudging the screen immediately. She wiped them on a towel and glanced at the calendar on her phone. Tomorrow was her one free evening—the one she’d planned to turn in early, ignore everyone, and rest before reporting in the morning, her head still throbbing. She typed, “I can’t, I have…” and stopped. Up surged that sickly feeling she knew so well: say no and you’ve let them down—you’re not that kind of person. She erased it and typed simply: “Yes, I’ll do it.” Sent. The kettle rumbled. She poured a mug of tea, sat on the stool by the window, and opened the note on her phone simply titled “Good Deeds.” The date was there already, with an entry: “Covered Svetlana’s shift.” She put a period and added a little plus sign, as if it somehow balanced the scales. She’d kept that note for almost a year. It had started on a January day, when the world felt especially hollow after Christmas and she needed proof her days weren’t just dissolving into nothing. The first entry: “Gave Mrs. Newton a lift to the surgery.” Mrs. Newton from the fifth floor walked with difficulty, medical papers pinched in her fist, and the bus ride was daunting. She’d rung the intercom: “You’ve got a car—could you take me? I won’t make it otherwise.” So she had. Waited outside while Mrs. Newton had her bloods done, drove her home. On the journey back she caught herself stewing with irritation. She was running late for work, her mind already circling other people’s complaints about waiting rooms and doctors. The irritation shamed her; she swallowed it down, washed it away with a cheap coffee at the petrol station. In the note, she wrote it up neatly, as if it had been pure. In February, her son had a work trip and dropped her grandson off for the weekend. “You’re home anyway, it’s no bother,” he said—not asking, just telling her. The child was sweet, noisy, always after her attention: “Look, Gran,” “Play with me,” “Come on, let’s do this.” She loved him, but by evening her hands shook with tiredness, her mind rang like after a rock concert. After putting him to bed, washing up, collecting toys in the box—only for them to be dumped out again at dawn—she greeted her son, who chuckled: “Come on, you’re a grandma.” He kissed her cheek. In her note: “Looked after my grandson for two days.” She added a heart, hoping it might blot out the obligation. March: her cousin phoned, asked to borrow some money until payday. “It’s for prescriptions, you understand,” she said. And she did understand. She sent the money, never asked when it would be returned. Then sat at her kitchen table, wondering how to get by till her own payday—skipping the new coat she’d long needed; the old one was worn shiny at the elbows now. On her list: “Helped out my cousin.” She didn’t add: “Put off something for myself.” That seemed too petty to record. April at work: one of the girls, young, red-eyed, stuck crying in the loo after being dumped, saying no one cared. She knocked: “Let me in, I’m here.” Later, they sat on freshly-painted stairs, the girl repeating herself. She just listened, long into the dark, missing her back-strengthening class the doctor had ordered for her pain. At home, her lower back throbbed. She wanted to be angry at the girl, but the anger was for herself: why aren’t you able to say “I need to go home”? The note: “Listened to Katie, offered support.” She wrote her name; that made it warmer. But she didn’t write: “Cancelled my own plans.” June: she drove a colleague out to her allotment with bags when her car broke down. The whole drive, the woman bickered with her husband on speakerphone, never once checking if it was convenient. She just stared at the road in silence. At the plot, the colleague unloaded quickly: “Thanks, you were heading this way anyway.” Only, she wasn’t. The detour meant she missed seeing her mother, who was cross about it later. In her note: “Drove Tanya to her allotment.” “On my way” stung her. She stared at the screen until it blacked out. August, late at night, her mum rang. Thin, anxious voice: “I don’t feel well, my blood pressure’s up, I’m scared.” She rushed to her mother’s flat in a taxi through empty streets. The flat was stifling, blood pressure monitor on the table, pills scattered on a saucer. She took a reading, gave her the tablets, and sat close until her mother slept. Next morning: straight to work, not home. In the tube, she kept nearly missing her stop, eyelids heavy. The note: “Stayed with Mum overnight.” She put an exclamation mark, then erased it—sounded too loud. By autumn, the list had grown. It was now a ribbon you could scroll through endlessly. And the longer it became, the more she felt that odd sensation: as if she lived only by submitting reports; as if love itself was handed out by receipt, and she was stashing them on her phone, just in case anyone asked: “Do you actually do anything?” She tried to remember when there’d last been anything on the list for her. Not “for her,” but “because of her.” Every entry was about others—their pains, their requests, their plans. Her own wishes seemed like petty tantrums to be hidden. October brought a sting—there was no row, but it left a scratch. She dropped off documents her son needed, standing in the hall as he searched for keys and took a call. Her grandson ran in circles, shouting for cartoons. With the call on hold, her son said, “Mum, since you’re here, could you pop to the shop? We’re out of milk and bread, and I just won’t have time.” She said, “I’m tired, too, you know.” He didn’t even look up, just shrugged: “But you can. You always can.” And went back to his conversation. Not a request—an expectation. She felt heat rise inside her, and shame with it: the shame of wanting to say “no.” Of not wanting, suddenly, to be endlessly convenient. She went anyway. Bought the bread, milk, and apples—her grandson’s favourite. Put the bags on their table, heard: “Thanks, Mum.” The thanks was flat, like a tick in a register. She smiled and left. Home again, she wrote: “Brought shopping for my son.” She stared at the words. Her fingers trembled—not from tiredness, but from anger. The list, she realized, was no longer a prop. It was a leash. In November, she booked a doctor’s appointment; her back pain had become unbearable. She scheduled it Saturday morning—no need to call in at work. But Friday night, her mum phoned: “Will you come round tomorrow? I need the chemist, and I’m all alone.” “I have my appointment, Mum.” A pause. “Oh, right. I guess I don’t matter, then.” That always got her. She never failed to leap in, reassure, rearrange her life. She nearly did it again, was about to say, “I’ll come after”—but stopped. It wasn’t defiance—just exhaustion, like realising her life also counted for something. She said softly: “Mum, I’ll come in the afternoon. I need to see the doctor.” Mum sighed, as if left out in the cold: “Alright, then.” In that “alright” was everything—hurt, pressure, habit. She slept badly that night. Dreamed of running down hallways with files, doors shutting in her face. Next morning, she made herself porridge, took pills from her cupboard, and left. At the clinic, surrounded by conversations about check-ups and pensions, she thought less about her diagnosis and more about this: for once, she was doing something for herself, and it frightened her. Afterwards, she kept her promise. Picked up the prescription, trudged to the third floor. Her mum greeted her in silence, then asked, “Did you go?” “Yes.” And, not apologising: “I needed to.” For a second, her mum really looked—not at her as a function, but as a person. Then turned away. That night, heading home, she felt a strange relief. Not joy, but space—space where she might fit. By December, as the year closed, she found herself waiting for weekends not as a break, but as an opportunity. One Saturday morning, her son texted: “Could you watch your grandson for a few hours? We need to run some errands.” She read it, her fingers hovering automatically at “yes.” Sitting on the bed, phone warm in her hand, the flat silent except for the radiator ticking, she remembered her plans: that day, she’d wanted to go into town, visit a museum, see the exhibition she kept putting off. Just walk among the pictures in peace—no one asking where the socks were or what was for tea. She wrote: “I can’t today. I’ve got my own plans.” Sent, flipping the phone face-down as if that made saying it easier. Reply came a minute later. “Okay,” her son said. Then: “Are you upset with us?” She turned the phone over, read it, and felt that old urge—to explain, defend, smooth everything over. She could have typed a long reply: that she was tired, too, that she needed to live a little. But she knew explanations always covered her in guilt—and she didn’t want to haggle for her own time anymore. She wrote: “No. It just matters to me.” And nothing more. She packed for her day out as carefully as for work. Checked the iron, the windows, grabbed her purse and charger. At the bus stop, standing among people with their shopping bags, she felt a new, unfamiliar ease: she didn’t owe herself to anyone, not right now. At the museum, she took her time—watching the faces on the portraits, the hands, the way the painted light gathered in the windows. She felt as if she was learning all over again to be attentive, not to other people’s needs, but to herself. She had coffee in a small café, bought a postcard of her favourite painting, and slipped it into her bag. Sturdy card, pleasing under her fingers. Back home, she left her phone in her bag, only fetched it after her coat was hung and her hands washed, the kettle on again. Sitting at the table, she opened “Good Deeds.” Scrolled all the way to today’s date. She stared at the empty space. Then pressed the plus and typed: “Went to the museum alone. Chose my own company instead of someone else’s errands.” And paused. The words “instead of someone else’s errands” seemed too harsh, as if she were pointing fingers. She erased them and wrote, simply: “Went to the museum alone. Looked after myself.” And then she did something she’d never done before: at the top of her list, she added two columns. On the left: “For Others.” On the right: “For Myself.” At first, under “For Myself,” there was just the one line. She looked at it, feeling something inside realign—like a spine stretching out at last. She didn’t need to prove to anyone that she was good. She just needed to remember she was here. Her phone buzzed again. She didn’t rush. She poured her tea, took a sip, and then checked the message. Mum, short and to the point: “How are you?” She replied: “I’m fine. I’ll bring you some bread tomorrow.” And before sending, added: “I was busy today.” Sent it and put the phone down, screen up. The flat was quiet, but the silence wasn’t heavy. It was a space—and for the first time, that space belonged to her.

She had just slipped off her boots and put the kettle on when a message from her manager popped up: Any chance you could cover for Emily tomorrow? Shes come down with a fever and were short. Her hands were still wet from washing up, and as she grabbed her phone, fingerprints smudged the screen. Drying her hands on a tea towel, she checked her phones calendar. Tomorrow was her only night to turn in early, with a big report due in the morning and her mind already buzzing.

She started to type: Cant, Ive gotthen stopped. That familiar wave rose in her, sickly and heavy: if she refused, shed be letting them down. Shed be the difficult one. She deleted and wrote simply: Yes, Ill do it, and sent it off.

The kettle began to whistle. She poured herself a cup of tea, settled on the stool by the window, and opened the note on her phone shed titled The Good List. At the top, she added todays date and Covered Emilys shift. She finished with a little plus sign, as if that tiny mark could balance things out.

The list had existed for almost a year. It started in January, after the holidays, when the mornings felt especially empty and she needed proof that the days werent all slipping past unnoticed. Shed written: Gave Mrs Green a lift to the GP. Mrs Green from the fifth floor moved slowly, clutching her test results, and the thought of the bus made her anxious. Shed buzzed the doorbell and said, Youve a car. Would you mind driving me, love? Otherwise Ill never make it. She took her, waited in the car while Mrs Green got her blood test, then drove her home again.

On the way back, she caught herself simmering with irritation. She was now late for work, already replaying other peoples complaints about queues and doctors. The irritation made her feel guilty, so she swallowed it down and grabbed a coffee at the petrol station. Later, in her note, she wrote it neatlyas if the task had been purely generous.

February brought a visit from her son, who had a work trip and left her with her grandson for the weekend. Youre home, it wont be any trouble, he said, not really asking. Her grandson was sweet but boisterous, all endless look! and play! and lets do this! She loved him, but by evening her hands trembled with exhaustion, her mind ringing as if from a loud concert.

After hed fallen asleep, she washed up, boxed away the toyswhich hed promptly scatter again in the morning. On Sunday, collecting him, her son smiled as she said, Im really tired. Well, youre his Gran! he teased, kissing her cheek. She added: Looked after Henry for two days to her list, with a heart next to itto remind herself it was more than just an obligation.

In March, her cousin called, asking to borrow money until payday. Its for medicineyou understand, dont you? she said. She did understand. She sent the money without asking when it would be returned. Anyway, back at her kitchen table, she worked out whether shed manage until her own pay came through, shelving her wish for a new winter coathers had faded at the elbows, but it didnt seem worth mentioning. Her note read: Helped cousin out. She didnt add: Put off my own needs. That felt too trivial to record.

April brought a tearful young colleague, Alice, shut in the loo and softly cryingHes left me, Im all alone, shed whispered through the door. She knocked gently. Open up, love, Im here. They sat together on the stairwell, still smelling of fresh paint, as Alice repeated her heartbreak over and over. She listened until darkness crept in, missing her own back exercises prescribed by the physio.

At home, her lower back ached as she lay on the sofa. She wanted to be angry with Alice, but the anger turned inwardwhy couldnt she say, I have to get home? On her Good List she added: Listened to Alice. Gave comfort. And wrote her name, to make it warmer. She didnt write: Missed my appointment.

In June, she gave another colleague, Jane, a lift to her cottage after Janes car broke down. Jane chatted loudly with her husband over Bluetooth the whole way, never once asking if the drive was convenient. At the end, Jane quickly grabbed her bags: Thanks, I knew you wouldnt mindits right on your way, isnt it? It wasnt. She crawled back through traffic, missing her planned visit to her mum, who later took offence.

Drove Jane to her cottage, she typed. The phrase right on your way stung, and she stared at her screen until it went dark.

In August, her mother called one nighther voice thin and anxious: I feel ill, darling, my blood pressureoh, Im scared. She leapt up, pulled on her coat, called a cab, and sped across the sleeping city. Her mums flat was stuffy, the blood pressure monitor open on the table, tablets scattered over a saucer. She checked the numbers, dispensed medicine, sat beside her until she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning she headed straight to work, heavy-lidded on the Tube, afraid shed miss her stop. Her list gained another entry: Stayed with Mum during the night. She put an exclamation point, but quickly deleted itit seemed too bold.

By autumn, the list stretched longa ribbon of small deeds she could scroll endlessly. The longer it grew, though, the more she noticed a hollow feeling: as if she was keeping a tally, collecting receipts for kindness in case someone asked, Are you doing enough?

When had the list last included something for herself? Not for her, but because of her. Everything was about others: their hurts, their demands, their plans. Her own wants, she realized, felt like things to be quietly tidied away.

Then, in October, something that wasnt loud but deeply wounding. She popped round to her sons, dropping off papers hed asked her to print. Waiting in the hall, files in hand, her son hunted his keys while talking on the phone. Henry, her grandson, danced around, shouting for cartoons. Covering the receiver, her son tossed over: Mum, while youre here, can you pop to Sainsburys for milk and bread? I wont have time.

She said, Im awfully tired myself, actually. Her son didnt look up, just shrugged: But you can. You always can, and went straight back to his call.

His words stungless a request than a statement. Something burned inside her, followed by shame. Shame that she wanted to refuse. Shame that she didnt want to be endlessly reliable.

But she went to the shop anywaybought the milk, bread, even added apples because Henry liked them. She carried the bags in and got a flat, routine Thanks, Mum. She smiled as she always did, then walked home.

Back at the kitchen table, she wrote: Bought groceries for my son. She stared at the entry for a while. Her hands trembled, not from tiredness, but from anger. She saw, suddenly and clearly, that this list wasnt supporting her anymore. It had become a leash.

In November, she finally made a GP appointment as her back pain worsenedshe could barely stand to cook. She booked an early Saturday slot online to avoid missing work. But on Friday night, her mum rang: Will you come round tomorrow? I need the chemist, and Im all alone.

She said quietly, Mum, Ive got a doctors appointment. There was a hush, then her mother replied, Fine. I suppose Im not needed then.

This line always worked. Usually, shed rush to reassure, promise to call round anyway, cancel her own plans. This time, words rose to her lips, but she paused. In her exhaustion, she finally saw her needs mattered.

She said, gently but firmly, Mum, Ill come after lunch. Its important I see the doctor.

Her mother sighed as if left out in the cold. All right, she said, with all the weight of offended anticipation.

That night, sleep came badly. She dreamt of running with files through corridors while doors slammed ahead of her. Morning came; she made herself porridge, took medicine, shut the door. At the surgery, waiting in line, she listened to chatter about blood tests and pensions. Her mind wandered, not to the diagnosis, but to the fact that, for once, she was doing something for herselfand how strangely frightening it felt.

Afterwards, she called at her mothers, collected the prescriptions, climbed to the third floor. Her mother was silent at first, then finally said, So, did you go?

She replied, I did. I needed to.

Her mum looked at her closely, as if seeing a new personnot just the daughter. She turned away and went to the kitchen. That evening, walking home, she felt a subtle relief in her chest. Not happiness, exactly, but space.

By December, nearly at years end, she found herself waiting for weekends not just as a breather, but as an opportunity. On Saturday morning, another message from her son: Can you watch Henry a couple of hours? Weve errands. She started typing yes out of habit.

But she remembered her own plansto visit the city, stroll around the National Gallery, to stand quiet among paintings, with no one asking where their socks were or what should be in the fridge.

She wrote instead: Sorry, I cant today. Ive got plans. She pressed send, setting the phone face-down, bracing herself for what might come.

His response: Okay. And then, Are you upset?

She read it, feeling the old urge to explain, to apologise, to soften things. She could have told the whole storythat she was tired and she needed to live her own life too. But explanations become negotiations, and she didnt want to bargain for her own existence.

She typed: No. Its just important to me. That was all.

She readied herself calmly, as you might for workchecking iron, windows, purse, bus pass, phone charger. On the bus stop among harried shoppers, she realised, for the first time, she wasnt rescuing anyone right now. The feeling was strange but not uncomfortable.

At the gallery, she moved slowly, studying the faces in the portraits, the hands, the light in the painted windows. She found herself learning a new kind of attentivenessthis time, aimed not outward at others needs, but inward. She sipped tea in a small café, picked up a postcard reproduction, tucked it into her handbag. The card was sturdy, the cardboard grainy and pleasant in her hand.

Back home, she left her phone in her bag awhile. She hung her coat, washed her hands, put the kettle on. Then, sitting at the table, she opened her Good List, scrolling down to todays date.

She paused, looking at the empty line. Then she tapped plus and wrote: Visited the gallery on my own. Chose my plans over someone elses needs.

She hesitated. The words over someone elses needs felt too pointed, as though she were blaming. She deleted them and wrote simply: Visited the gallery on my own. Looked after myself.

Then, as if guided by impulse, she went up to the start of the list and made two columns. On the left: For others. On the right: For myself.

In the For myself column, only one entry gleamed so far. She watched it for a while, feeling something vital click into alignmentlike a spine after a satisfying stretch. She realised she didnt have to prove her goodness to anyone. She simply needed to remember herself.

Her phone buzzed again. She didnt hurry. She poured her tea, took a sip, then checked. Her mother had texted: How are you?

She replied: All right. Ill pop by tomorrow, bring you some bread. Then she added before sending: Been busy today.

She placed her phone face-up beside her. The room was quiet, a quiet that finally felt like space made just for her.

Sometimes the most meaningful kindness is the kindness you show yourself, allowing room to simply be.