For Rainy Days
In a kitchen drawer, beneath a stash of spare AA batteries and tangled hairbands, there rested a piece of paper folded four times. Emma held it not as a note, but as a device: she smoothed it open with her palm, steadying its creased edges, and read it not with her eyes but with her boneslike one reads instructions before pressing a mysterious button.
At the top, ink from an old biro spelled: For Rainy Days. Below, a list. No Be brave or Pull yourself together, but tiny, trustworthy actions.
1. Glass of water. Then tea. Sit for two minutes.
2. Breathe: in for four, out for six, ten times.
3. Call one person from three. Say: I just need five minutes, just listen.
4. Write down three nearest steps. No more.
5. Delegate: ask, pay, postpone.
6. Walk the route: from home to Boots through the square, round the school, back.
7. Say one honest thing at homeno blame.
This list had appeared after the day two years back when she fell apart in Tesco because the till crashed and someone clucked irritably behind her. She had bolted outside, empty-handed, half a day unable to explain why. The therapist at her first appointment had asked, What do you do when it hits? Emma had answered, Nothing. I try not to feel. She realised then: Nothing was a choice, but the most corrosive.
Today she fished out the paper not because she was already spiralling, but to make sure it still lived thereher anchor in a wooden sea. She folded it carefully, pressed the creases, tucked it back and shut the drawer.
On the table sat a container of rice, next to her sons school lunchbox. Emma checked again: napkin, apple, packet of little biscuits. In the hallway hung his jacket; the report card rested on the console. Everything was ready, which somehow made her more anxiouslike before a trip, when you know youre forgetting something.
Her son, Harry, emerged from his room, doing up the zip.
Mum, Ive got a maths test today.
I remember, Emma said, smiling to hide the silent wish, Let it be a normal day, please.
Her husband, Ben, already sat with his coffee, staring at the laptop. He worked shifts; today he needed to swing by the garage for car parts, then onto site.
Can you drop me off? Emma asked as she laced her trainers.
No time. Ive got a meeting at nine, he answered, eyes glued to the screen.
Emma swallowed the old irritation. No time always felt like dont want to, though she knew he didnt mean it. She grabbed her bag, checked for keys, card, charger.
The lift arrived swiftly, but at the lobby the doors spasmed and froze. Emma pressed the button again. Silence.
Mum, are we stuck? Harry looked at her with an almost adult anxiety.
No, hang on, she said. Open, close, call. The lift exhaled and moved.
Emma felt a wave rise in her chest, as though someone tipped boiling water inside. Nothing had happened, yet her body braced for disaster.
Outside, the bus had already gone. People milled and grumbled into phones, others gazed into nothing. Emma glanced at her watch. If they waited for the next bus, they’d be late.
Well walk to the Tube, she said. Quickly.
Harry trotted beside her, trying not to lag. Emma gripped his sleeve to keep him from darting into the road. In her mind, the day lined up like dominoes: school, then office, then call, then
At the Tube entrance, her phone vibrated. The schools number.
Mrs. James? The secretarys voice was brisk and dry. Harry doesnt have a note excusing him from PE. He says his knee hurts, but without the note we cant
Emma closed her eyes for a second.
His knee really does hurt. We saw the doctor and the notes at home, I forgot to pack it. Can I send a photo?
Photo isnt sufficient. We need the original.
Ill bring it after work, Emma said, her voice tight. Or maybe I can ask my husband.
By twelve, the secretary cut off.
Emma hung up and felt something coil in her gut. By twelve meant shed have to rush from worktoday, of all days, when the report was due.
Harry stood beside her, watching.
I didnt mean to, he said.
I know. Go on. Youll be fine, Emma told him, though fine felt miles away.
She ushered him into school, kissed his crown, and returned to the Tube. The carriage was packed, someone trod on her shoe, someone else laughed too loudly. Emma gripped the railing, willing herself to ignore the fact that the day had barely begun.
At the office, she was greeted by the mingled smells of coffee and printer toner. The colleague at the next desk looked up.
Em, the clients on the line. Wheres the final version? Theyre already twitchy.
Emma sat down, switched on her computer, opened the folder. The file wasnt there. She checked again. Shed saved it on the shared drive yesterday. Or thought she had.
Just a sec, she said, her palms damp.
She opened her email, hunted the thread, tried to rebuild the chain of actions. In her head, that old childhood phrase flickered: Youve messed it up again. It always surfaced when she needed simply to solve.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, her mother.
Emma, her voice was tense. The kitchen taps leaking. I put a bowl underneath but waters still dripping. Im scared itll flood the neighbours.
Emma glanced at her screen, the empty folder, the clock.
Mum, Im at work. Turn off the valve under the sink, remember?
I cant. Its stiff.
Use a towel for grip. If not, call the emergency plumber. Ill text you the number.
Theyll take ages, wont they?
I know. But I cant come right now. Emma heard her voice grow sharp. Ill send the number, okay?
Her mum was silent for a moment.
Okay, she whispered.
Emma hung up, burdened by guilt like a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. She wanted to be the good daughter, good mother, competent worker, and decent human all at once. But in these moments, shed fail everyone.
Her manager poked her head in.
Emma, whats up with the report? The clients waiting. And lowering her voice, you sent them the draft yesterday, the numbers dont match.
Emma felt her face flush.
I Ill sort it now. Ill fix it.
Make it snappy, said the manager, and left.
Emma stared at the screen, knowing shed do what she always did: dart about, grab everything, end up making even more mistakes. Panic bloomed sticky and familiar, air thinning.
She leaned back, closed her eyes for a second. For Rainy Days, surfaced, as if an invisible hand had touched her shoulder.
Emma stood, took her mug and wandered to the kitchen. Not out of desire for tea, but to break her bodys cycle.
She poured a glass from the cooler, drank in one go. Put the kettle on, waited for it to boil, dunked a teabag into her mug. Sat near the window, gazed out at the courtyard between office buildings. Two minutes. Just two.
She breathed out longer than in. On the sixth exhale, her shoulders lowered a notch. On the tenth, her heart still raced, but not like a siren.
Back at her desk, she opened her notebook. At the top, she wrote: Now.
1. Find the latest version of the report.
2. Call the client and tell them, honestly, when the final would be ready.
3. Sort out the note and the tap.
Three steps. Not ten.
She checked the shared drives history. The file wasnt deleted, just renamed. Yesterday shed added the date, not seeing that the sort order changed. Emma opened it, fixed an error in a formula, recalculated, saved.
Then she called the client.
Good morning, its Emma, she said evenly. Yesterday you got a draft with an error. Ive corrected it now. The final will be sent in forty minutes. If you need it sooner, let me know whats urgent, Ill prioritise.
Silence. Then a sigh.
Forty minutes is fine. Thanks for letting us know.
Emma hung up and felt a tiny island of steadiness growing inside. Not happiness, not relief, just the ability to stand.
The next step was a call. One person from three. She scrolled through contacts and landed on Ben. She didnt want to hear no time again, but right now, didnt need perfectionjust help.
Ben, hi. Quick one. School needs Harry’s note by twelve. It’s at home, on the console under his report card. Could you drop it in?
Im way across town, he began.
Emma inhaled, didnt let herself snap.
I know. But if I dont get it there, Ill have to leave work, and thats worse. Could you ask someone at the site, or change your route?
Ben paused.
Alright. Ill swing home, pick it up, drop it off. Send me a photo so I dont waste time searching.
Thanks. Will do.
She snapped a photo of the note shed genuinely left on the console yesterday and sent it. In her mind: Thats delegation. Not heroics, just asking.
Mum and the tap remained. Emma messaged her the plumbers number and a brief instruction: Valve under the sink, turn clockwise. If it wont budge, towel and gentle force. If youre nervous, ring the plumber, say leaking tap, worried about flooding. Then she called anyway.
Mum, I cant get there immediately,” she said gently. “But Ill stay on the phone while you try to turn it.
My hands are shaky, her mum confessed.
Lets do it together. Where are you now?
In the kitchen.
Good. Open the cupboard under the sink. Grab a towel. Wrap it, try gently turning the valve. No rush.
Emma listened as her mum shuffled, a bowl clattering.
It moved, her mum said after a minute, surprise in her voice. Oh. The leaking stopped.
Brilliant. Just leave the water off until the plumber comes. Ill check it tonight.
Sorry for bothering, her mum said.
You didnt bother me. You called right on time, Emma answered, surprised to realise it was true.
She sent the report. Forty minutes, right as promised. Her manager nodded, unsmiling but not angry. Her colleague gave a thumbs up.
She should have exhaled. Yet inside, she still quivered, like after slamming the brakes. Emma knew if she just kept working, shed crack by evening and snap at the family.
At lunch, she didnt join the canteen crowd. Grabbed her coat, phone, headphones, and went out. The route was from the list: from office to Boots through the square, round the school, back. Not for medicine, but for the certainty of a familiar circuit, no surprises.
She strode briskly, counting steps not consciously, but as if her body craved rhythm. At Boots, she bought plasters and chamomile tea, though her cupboards already brimmed with it. Just so she’d made a mark: I looked after something.
On her way back, she paused by the school fence, glanced at the windows. Somewhere in there, Harry tackled his maths test. Emma wanted to text him: How are you? But didnt. He deserved his own space.
By evening, Ben messaged: Dropped off the note. All sorted. Followed bya photo: the note in the security guards hand, school lobby backdrop. Emma smiled, feeling another knot uncoil in her chest.
She reached home later than usual, tired, but not wrung dry. On the console rested the report card, the note gone. Ben had genuinely swung by, hadnt forgotten or mixed up.
Harry sat in the kitchen, eating pasta.
Mum, I got a four, he said, as if it were the most precious news.
Well done. Emma ruffled his shoulder. Hows the knee?
Okay. I was just scared itd hurt again.
Emma nodded. She wanted to say, Me too, but thatd be too much, too soon. She set the kettle boiling, fetched the newly bought chamomile, dropped a bag into her mug.
Ben walked in, kicking off his shoes.
How was your day? he asked.
Emma recognised her old urgeto list, itemise, prove today had been hard. But her list had an item: say something honest, without blame.
She set her mug down and said:
I was knocked about a lot today. I need you beside me this evening, phone-free, for half an hour.
Ben looked at her closer than he had that morning.
Of course. After dinner. Im actually knackered, but I can do that.
Thanks, Emma said. She realised it wasnt concession, nor victoryit was agreement.
After dinner, they sat together in the living room. Ben put his phone face-down. Harry disappeared to tackle homework. Emma recounted the report saga, the school call, her mums leaking tap. Not dramatizingjust as events. Ben asked a few things, nodded, said, Yeah, thats a lot. It was enough.
Later, Emma popped by her mums with a spanner and a new washer shed picked up at B&Q. Mum greeted her with an apologetic smile.
I thought youd be cross, said her mum.
I was, Emma admitted, slipping off her coat. But not with you. With how theres never time for everything.
Together, they opened the cupboard under the sink, found the valve shut, the bowl dry. Emma tightened the joint, swapped the washer, checked it. Water stopped dripping. It wasnt magic, just mechanics.
At home again, the folded paper still lay in the kitchen drawer. Emma took it out, unfolded it, scanned its items. These didnt promise life would be smooth. They promised only this: she owned a set of actions for when things spun out.
She scribbled at the bottom: 8. Ask for half an hour, phone-free. Thought for a second, wrote: It works.
Then she folded the paper up, put it away, shut the drawer. The day hadnt turned perfect. But it had shed its disasterenough to let her sleep, knowing shed manage again tomorrow.
