For a Rainy Day
In the kitchen drawer, tucked beneath spare batteries and a tangle of hair bobbles, lay a sheet of paper folded neatly into quarters. I always held it not like a letter but more like a tool smoothing it flat with my palm to steady the edges and reading it with my whole body, as though following instructions before pressing a button.
At the top, in biro, it said: For a Rainy Day. Below that: a list. Not the usual be strong or pull yourself together, but small, proven actions.
1. Glass of water. Then tea. Sit down for two minutes.
2. Breathe: inhale for four, exhale for six, ten times.
3. Call one person out of three. Say: I need five minutes, just listen.
4. Write down three next steps. No more.
5. Delegate: ask, pay, rearrange.
6. Take a walk: from home to the chemist through the estate, around the local primary, and back.
7. Say one honest sentence at home, no blame.
That list appeared after I had a meltdown in Tesco two years ago. The till froze and someone tutted loudly behind me. I rushed out, left my trolley, and spent half a day unable to explain to myself why Id reacted like that. The therapist, at my first session, asked, What do you do when it overwhelms you? I answered, Nothing. I try not to feel. It became painfully obvious that nothing is still an action its most destructive one.
Today, I took out the list not because things were already bad, but almost as reassurance: the sheet is there, my anchor close by. I flattened the folds, put it back in the drawer, and closed it.
On the kitchen table was a tub of rice, beside my sons school lunchbox. I checked Id packed napkins, an apple, and a little bag of biscuits. His coat hung in the hallway; his homework diary rested on the sideboard. All ready, which made me strangely anxious like before a trip, convinced Id forgotten something.
James, my son, came out of his room, zipping his jumper.
Mum, Ive got a maths test today.
I know, I said, smiling carefully. I didnt let him hear the silent please, no surprises.
Mike, my husband, was already drinking coffee, fixated on his phone. He works shifts; today he needed to swing by the garage for car parts and then go straight to site.
Could you drop me off on your way? I asked, slipping on my trainers.
Cant Ive got a meeting at nine, he replied, barely looking up.
I swallowed the usual irritation. Cant always sounds like wont, though I know thats not fair. Shoulder bag on, I double-checked keys, card, charger.
The lift came quickly, but at the ground floor its doors jerked and froze. I pressed the button again. Silence.
Mum, are we stuck? James gave me a look way too grown up for his age.
No. Just a moment. I tried open and close, then pressed call. The lift sighed and moved.
Hot prickles in my chest the rush of anxiety, like someone poured boiling water inside. Nothing had really happened, but my body was ready for disaster.
Outside, the bus was already gone. People stood at the stop, one swearing into their phone, another staring vacantly. I checked my watch. If we waited for the next, wed be late.
Well walk to the tube, I said. Quickly.
James trotted alongside, trying not to lag. I gripped his sleeve never letting him dart ahead. In my mind, the agenda unfurled: school, then office, then calls, then
As we reached the station, my phone buzzed. The schools number.
Mrs Evans? The secretarys voice was polite but brisk. James doesn’t have a note for PE exemption today. He says his knee hurts, but unless there’s a note
I closed my eyes for a moment.
It really does hurt. We saw the GP yesterday; the note’s at home, I forgot it. Can I email a photo?
We only accept originals.
Ill drop it off after work, I said, voice strained. Or maybe I can ask my husband.
By midday, she cut in.
I ended the call and felt something clench inside. By midday meant Id have to leave work on the day of my big report.
James stood nearby, watching me.
I didnt mean to, he said, small and worried.
I know. Its alright, go on, I answered, though alright felt far away.
I got him to school, kissed his head, then doubled back for the tube. Packed train, someone stepped on my foot, laughter too loud. I clung to the rail, reminding myself the day had only begun.
At the office, the smell of coffee and printer ink hit me. Laura from the desk next door looked up.
Liv, the clients on the line wheres the final version? Theyre getting twitchy.
I sat down, started up my laptop, opened the folder. The file wasnt there. Checked again. I was certain Id saved it on the shared drive yesterday. Or thought I had.
Just a sec, I said, palms sweaty.
Sifting through emails, retracing steps, I felt the old tape playing in my mind: Youve messed it up again. An echo from childhood, always popping up when I needed to just solve the problem.
Phone buzzed again. Mum.
Olivia, her voice was tense, the kitchen taps leaking. Ive got a bowl under it, but waters still dripping. Im so scared itll flood the neighbours.
I glanced at my screen, at the empty folder, at the clock.
Mum, Im at work right now. Try turning off the water under the sink the tap there, remember?
I cant its stiff.
Wrap a towel round it for grip. If it wont budge, ring the emergency plumber. Ill text you their number.
Goodness knows how long theyll take.
I know, but I cant come right away. My voice was sharp, I realised. Ill send the number, alright?
Mum was silent a moment.
Alright, she said quietly.
I hung up and guilt settled over me like a heavy bag. The urge always to be the good daughter, good mum, good employee, and a normal human in these moments I lose to everyone.
Sarah, my manager, poked her head round.
Olivia, wheres the report? Clients waiting. And, heads upyesterday you sent them a draft, numbers dont add up.
Heat rushed to my face.
I Im sorting it. Ill fix it.
Sort it quickly, she said and walked off.
I stared at the screen, knowing Id do what I always do: start rushing, grab everything at once, and end up making more mistakes. The panic rose sticky, familiar, like there wasnt enough air.
I tilted back in my chair, closed my eyes for a heartbeat. For a rainy day, floated through my mind, as if someone rested a gentle hand on my shoulder.
I stood up, grabbed my mug, headed for the kitchenette. Not out of thirst, just because I needed to break the chain of anxiety.
I filled a glass from the cooler, drank it all in one go. Boiled the kettle, dropped a teabag in my mug. Sat by the window, looking out across the courtyard between office blocks. Two minutes. Just two.
Ten long breaths exhale longer than inhale. By number six, my shoulders loosened. By ten, my heart was still racing, but at least it wasnt siren-loud.
Back at my desk, I pulled out my notebook. Wrote at the top: Right now.
1. Find the latest version of the report.
2. Call the client and honestly say when itll be ready.
3. Sort the PE note and Mums tap.
Three steps. Not ten.
On the shared drive, I checked the version history. The file wasnt deleted, just renamed yesterday I added a date, missed the change in sorting. Opened the report, fixed a formula, recalculated, saved.
Then called the client.
Good morning, its Olivia Evans. Apologies yesterdays draft had an error, Ive corrected it. The final will be ready in forty minutes. Let me know if you need it sooner and Ill prioritise.
A pause; then a relieved sigh.
Forty minutes is fine. Thank you for letting us know.
I hung up, feeling a small, steadying island inside. Not joy, not relief, but room to stand.
Next: the phone call. Pick one person of three. Flicked through my contacts and paused at Mike. I didnt want another cant, but I needed practical help now, not perfection.
Mike, hi. Quick one the school needs the PE note by midday. Its at home, on the sideboard under Jamess diary. Could you drop it off?
Im miles away on site, he began.
I took a breath, didnt let myself snap.
I know, but if you dont drop it off, Ill have to leave work itll be worse. Is there anyone at site who could help, or could you change your route?
He hesitated.
Okay. Ill swing home and leave it at school. Just send a photo so I know what Im looking for.
Thanks. Sending it now.
I snapped the note I’d left on the sideboard last night, sent it over. In my mind: Thats delegation. Not heroics, just asking.
Left: Mum and the tap. I texted her the plumbers number and a short guide: Valve under sink, right as far as it goes. If it sticks, use a towel. If youre worried, ring plumber, tell them taps leaking and youre afraid of flooding. Then I rang her.
Mum, I cant come now, I said gently, but Im here on the phone while you try.
My hands are shaking, she admitted.
Lets do it together. Where are you?
In the kitchen.
Alright. Open the under-sink cupboard. Grab a towel, wrap the valve, gentle twist. Dont force it.
I listened: mum rustling, bowl clattering.
Its turned, she said, surprised. Oh the drips stopped.
Brilliant. Just dont turn it back on until the plumbers been. Ill come over tonight and check.
Sorry I bothered you, she said.
You didnt. You called at the right time, and realised that was true.
Sent the report. Forty minutes, as promised. Sarah nodded no smile, but no scolding either. Laura gave me a thumbs up.
Youd think I could relax. But inside, the trembling remained, like after braking hard. I knew: if I just ploughed on, by tonight Id snap at home.
At lunchtime I didnt go to the canteen. Pulled on my coat, grabbed phone and earphones, slipped outside. Walk from office to chemist through the estate, circle round primary, and back from my list. Not for medicine, but for the familiar circuit, predictable, no surprises.
I paced briskly, counting not deliberately but because my body hunted rhythm. Outside the chemist bought plasters and chamomile tea, though I had plenty at home. No matter a tangible act of care.
On the way back, I paused at the primary school gates, looked up at the windows. Somewhere inside, James was tackling that maths test. I wanted to text: How are you? But refrained. Let him manage as he needs.
By evening, Mike sent: Dropped the note off. All sorted. Followed by a photo: the note in the caretakers hands, school foyer in the background. I smiled, feeling another knot inside loosen.
Home was later than usual, tired but not drained. On the sideboard, Jamess diary; the note gone confirmation Mike really had swung by, hadnt forgotten, hadnt mixed it up.
James sat in the kitchen eating pasta.
Mum, I got a four, he said, like it was the most important thing ever.
Well done. I squeezed his shoulder. Hows your knee?
Okay. I was just worried itd hurt again.
I nodded. Wanted to say: Me too, but that felt too much. I set the kettle on, opened the chamomile tea, dropped a bag in my mug.
Mike came in, taking off his shoes.
How was your day? he asked.
I felt the old urge to present, list, prove how tough itd been. But the list said: say one honest thing, no blame.
I placed my mug on the table.
Its been really rough today. I need you close tonight, just half an hour with no phone.
Mike looked at me more attentively than he had in the morning.
Alright. After dinner. Im wiped too, but I can do that.
Thank you, I said, realising it wasnt a concession or a victory it was an agreement.
After dinner, we sat in the living room. Mike put his phone face down. James went off to his homework. I told Mike about the report, the school call, Mums tap. Not dramatizing, just step by step. He asked a couple of questions, nodded, said: Thats a lot. And it was enough.
Later, I nipped over to Mums. Took a spanner and a new washer Id bought on the way. She met me at the door, apologetic.
I kept worrying youd be cross, she said.
I was cross, I admitted, taking my coat off. But not with you. With never having enough time for everything.
Together, we opened the cupboard under the sink. The valve was off, bowl dry. I checked the connection, tightened the nut, swapped the washer. The drip stopped. No miracle, just mechanics.
Back home, the Rainy Day list was still in the kitchen drawer. I took it out, looked through the points. No promise that life would be smooth just a set of actions for when everything goes wrong.
I added a new line below: 8. Ask for half an hour without phones. Next to it: Works.
Folded the list back, tucked it away, closed the drawer. Today hadnt been perfect. But it wasnt a disaster, either. That was enough to go to bed knowing Id manage tomorrow too.
