The Right to Take Your Time
The text from her GP arrived while Emma was hunched over her desk at the office, finishing yet another email. She flinched at the buzz from her phone, sitting close by her keyboard.
Test results are in, please come in before six, it read, short and to the point.
The clock on her screen showed a quarter past three. The surgery was three bus stops away, thered be a wait, then the doctors room, then back again Plus, her son had said hed pop in if he had time. And her boss had hinted that morning about an extra report. In the handbag by her feet were documents Emma had promised to drop round to her mums that evening.
Off again this evening? her desk mate asked, noticing Emma glance at her watch.
Have to be, Emma replied, almost on autopilot, although her neck felt clammy under her blouse and a dull ache throbbed in her chest.
The work day dragged on, thick as dough. Emails, calls, the endless chime of the department chat. Around midday, her boss poked her head out of her office.
Emma, listen, she called, The contractor wants a summary before the weekend, but Im off Saturday. Any chance you could help? Nothing major, just pulling together the tables. Three, maybe four hours, all from home.
The words nothing major hung in the air, as unyielding as an order. The colleague on Emmas right buried herself in her monitor, trying to vanish. Emma opened her mouth for her usual of course, but her phone gently vibrated in her pocket. A reminder from an app: Evening: 30-minute walk. Shed set these reminders herself over summer, after another bout of high blood pressurethen repeatedly ignored or dismissed them, barely glancing.
This time she didnt swipe it away. She just looked at the line on the screen, like it was waiting for an answer.
Emma? her boss repeated.
Emma inhaled. Her head buzzed, but beneath the ache something stubborn and solid took holdif she said yes, shed be sitting up again past midnight, her back would ache, and on Sunday thered be laundry, cooking, taking Mum to her clinic.
I cant, she said, surprised at how calm her voice sounded.
Her boss arched an eyebrow.
Really? But you
My mum, actually, Emma finally voiced the excuse that always justified her lateness but rarely refusal. And my doctor said I shouldnt do too much overtime. Sorry.
She didnt mention the GP had said this only in passingand ages ago. But it was true, after all.
A pause hung in the air. Emma braced herself, waiting for a sigh, a quip about the team and reliability.
All right, her boss eventually said, waving a hand. Ill find someone else. Crack on.
As the door clicked shut, Emma noticed her back was damp with sweat. Her fingers, still gripping her mouse, trembled slightly. A guilt-laden thought scurried by: she should have said yes. Was it really so hard? Just three or four hours on Saturday.
But alongside the guilt, something else crept inquiet, unfamiliar, and a little frightening. Relief. Shed finally set down a heavy bag and sat, if only for a moment.
That evening, instead of nipping into the shopping centre for something just in case for the report, Emma left the surgery and didnt scurry straight to the bus stop. She waited by the door, caught her breath, and noticed how her legs ached from running about all day.
Mum, Ill come tomorrow, she told her mother over the phone, after picking up her results and queueing to pay at reception.
Not popping by tonight? her mums voice was, as ever, tinged with mild reproach.
Mum, Im shattered. Its getting late, and I need to get home and have a proper meal for once. Ill pick up your tablets and bring them round tomorrow morning.
She braced herself for protest, but only got a resigned sigh.
Well, if you think best. Youre not a child.
Not a child, Emma scoffed. Fifty-five, two grown kids, nearly at the end of the mortgageand still she sometimes felt like she had to prove herself good enough to someone. Daughter, mother, employee.
Home was quiet. Her son messaged he wouldnt make itflat out at work. She boiled the kettle, sliced some tomatoes. Her hand automatically reached for the hooverthe floors needed doingbut she just sat at the table instead, poured herself a cup of tea, and let it cool as she leafed through a book shed started on holiday.
A nagging voice reminded her: hang up the washing, scrub the pans, finish that report, search for a new clinic for Mum. But the chorus of have tos wasnt quite so loud today. Somewhere among the demands, a little glimmer appeared: It can wait.
She read at her own pace, going back if her mind wandered. At one point, she simply gazed out of the window, not rushing anywhere. Outside, car headlights trickled by, the odd passer-by lugged shopping bags, a dog trotted next to its owner.
Its fine, she said aloud, summing up to herself. Doesnt matter if the floors arent shining.
And, to her own surprise, it didnt feel wrong.
* * *
Next day, life whirled back on as usual, as if yesterday hadnt existed. Mum rang at nine, anxiety in her voice.
Emma, are you sure youll be here before lunch? Doctors coming at eleven to check my blood pressure.
Ill be there, Emma replied, one hand pulling on her jeans, the other stuffing the blood pressure monitor in her bag.
Her son pinged on WhatsApp.
Mum, hi. Quick onecan we chat this evening? Its about the flattimings tight.
Sure, after seven, Emma called, slipping on her boots. Im on my way to Grans.
Again? her son groaned.
Again, she replied, calmly.
On the bus, a row broke out with the driver, plastic bags rustled, and Emma dozed, arms wrapped protectively around the monitor, waking as they reached her mums street.
Mum opened the door in her dressing gown, wearing the usual dissatisfied frown.
Youre late. Doctors nearly here and its a mess, she gestured at a chair piled with clothes.
Emma used to snap back instantlyIm running around the city, and this is what I get? The guilt, the fatiguealways the same cycle.
Today, she stood at the threshold, set down her bag, and breathed in. She could see the whole scene clearlywords, hurt, heavy sighs. She saw herself, after another row, wiping her eyes on the street outside, making up reasons why she was in a bad mood.
Mum, she said gently, I know youre worried. Can we just get things out for the doctor first? Then Ill sort the washing. I dont have endless energy.
Mum scowled, ready to retort, but reading Emmas expression, something softened. Not outrage, not pleading, just calm resolve.
All right then. Get your gadget out.
When the doctor left, her mum, fiddling with her belt, spoke in an unfamiliar voiceone not used for arguing with the news.
Dont think I do it for the sake of it Its just scary on my own.
Emma stood at the sink, rinsing mugs. The washing-up liquid stung her hands, but the confession thawedand painedsomething inside her.
I know, she said. I get scared too sometimes.
Her mum scoffed, sounding unconvinced, and flicked over to the TV. Yet the whole room felt different now, as if an invisible thread had been pulled a little lighter, without tugging.
* * *
That evening, Emma stopped by the pharmacy near her block. In the queue ahead, her neighbour from their building stoodusually bustling with a pram and laden bags, though today without either, looking lost.
Still cant work out which vitamins for my husband, the neighbour muttered, clutching a notepad. The GP wrote down two names but theres deals on, I cant make head nor tail.
Emma would once have nodded politely and buried herself in her phoneher own problems were enough. But now, she recognised that helpless shuffling at the counter. Her mum had recently asked for the dosages written down, and Emma herself had stood in this pharmacy last winter, clutching a scrap of paper, baffled.
Lets have a look, Emma offered.
They moved aside, Emma popped on her reading glasses, read the doctors notes, checked with the pharmacist, found the right box.
Oh, thank you, her neighbour sighed in relief. You know, I always think, with your mum poorly, you must be a pro at this by now.
Emma smiled.
Not really. I just get by.
Outside, her neighbour hesitated.
If its all right, could I ask for help sometimes? My husbands hopeless at reading instructions.
A year ago, Emma would have chirped, Of course, any time, then cursed herself when her neighbour called at night. Now, she let a brief pause restchecking she wouldnt be adding a fresh obligation to her shoulders.
Give me a ring, but best during the day. Evenings are my own.
Saying it aloud, the word own surprised her. As if she was finally admitting her evenings mattered as much as anyones medication.
Her neighbour nodded, perfectly unbothered. It felt better than gratitude.
* * *
That evening Emma made a simple dinner. No fussjust enough for one, maybe two if her son popped by. Pasta, a bit of chicken, sliced cucumber. The kitchen was mildly untidya shirt of her sons draped over a chair, an unsorted basket of laundry in the corner. Ten years ago, she wouldnt have sat to eat until the place was spotless.
Now she just nudged the basket out of the way with her foot.
Her son called, tension in his voice.
Mum, this all got tricky. Theyre offering a mortgage, but the deposits big. We wondered could you help again? I know you have before, its just
Emma closed her eyes. She always winced at these conversationslike a painful, familiar bruise. It churned up all the old worriesdid I raise him right? Did I never earn enough? Did I give him a good enough life? Buried in there, too, the old regret about the failed business her ex-husband tricked her into, the years spent blaming herself.
How much do you need? she asked, leaning her elbows on the table.
He named the sum. Not astronomical, but itd take a chunk out of her maybe someday savingsa seaside holiday, a new fridge, getting decent dentures for Mum.
Inside, something rustled, like old receipts pulled out of a drawer. Not just numbers, but that endless list of things left undoneshe hadnt moved to another city as a young woman, hadnt finished her thesis on her favourite subject, hadnt left her husband sooner, and yet still ended up single.
Mum, honestly, well pay you back, he insisted.
I know, Emma replied. And that was trueshe knew she probably wouldnt see the money again. It happened every time.
She let a moment pass, ones her son probably found endless. In those seconds, she saw everythinghis childhood boots shed bought on instalments, birthdays without a father, how hed curl up with her when they were both frightened. And her own dreams, set aside for years, like an old jumper at the back of the cupboard.
I can help, she said, but not all of it. Half. You and your wife will need to sort the rest.
He hesitated.
Mum disappointment flickered.
Alex, she said, using his full name in that rare, steady tone. Im not a cash machine. I have my own life to think about.
Silence. Emma waited for the familiar wave of remorse, but it didnt come. She felt nervous, yes. A bit ashamed. Oddly, though, she was also at peace.
All right, her son replied eventually. Youre right. Well manage. What you give will really help.
They chatted a bit moreabout work, his sister, what TV they were watching. When Emma hung up, the tick of the kitchen clock suddenly seemed loud.
She sank onto a stool beside the laundry, her eyes resting on the basket. For some reason, it felt as if her thirty-five-year-old selfdishevelled, always apologetic, endlessly trying to do everything rightwas sitting beside her.
So, Emma thought at her younger self. Yes, we missed plenty. Yes, we made mistakes. But thats no reason to punish ourselves for another twenty years.
It wasnt some grand revelationjust a quiet truce. She folded one t-shirt neatly. Then another. Then left the rest for tomorrow. She finally allowed herself to let go of perfect.
* * *
On her first Saturday free from overtime in ages, Emma woke up without an alarm. Instinct tried to jolt her upYouve got to go, Youve got to cook, Youve got to sort the washing. She forced herself to stay in bed for ten whole minutes, listening to someones footsteps scuffling outside her window.
Later, after a cup of tea and a quick tidy-up, Emma pulled out a little notebook from her drawera Christmas gift from her daughter, whod beamed:
Mum, you should finally do something just for you. Write down what you want to do.
Emma had smiled, then tucked the notebook awayits pages blank. What business did she have with her own plans between her mum, her job, her grown children?
Now, she opened to a clean page. Her hand hovered nervously. There were no big dreams, no globe-trotting, no career switches. She realised she didnt want to make another project for herself.
Instead, she wrote, neatly: Id like to go for a walk some evenings with no particular purpose. Below that: Sign up for the computer course at the local library.
Not a language class, not potterynothing to boast about online. Just learning to handle what she already usedenough so she didnt feel left behind. She was tired of always having to ask her son to help book GP appointments on the computer.
She slipped the notebook into her bag. Instead of heading to the supermarket, she wandered into the communal green behind her building, somewhere she hadnt been for ages. It was quiet; old trees threw shade on benches. On one sat two women her age, discussingshe guessed from scraps of conversationthe same things she always did: prices, health, children.
Emma kept walking. Not fast, not slow, just her own pace. Somewhere deep inside, a space felt newly emptylike a cupboard youd finally cleared after years of hoarding.
She didnt know yet how to live differently. Shed no doubt slip up, say yes too often, snap at her mum, regret things later. But between herself and her duties, she now had a little breathing rooma pause in which to ask, Do I want this?
On the way back, she stopped by the library shed passed for years without entering. Inside, it smelled of books and dust. A woman in a knitted waistcoat looked up from behind the desk.
Can I help you?
I was wondering about the computer classes, Emma said, suddenly feeling as nervous as a schoolgirl, For adults. Id like to get the hang of things.
The librarian smiled.
We do. Evenings, twice a week. Were just starting a new group. Shall I put your name down?
Yes, please, Emma said.
As she wrote her age, 55 no longer felt like a sentence. More like a sign that shed reached a place where she had the right to take her time.
Back indoors, the frying pan was still waiting for a wash, her sons shirt was still slung over the chair, her mothers test results and a new Staff Goals for the Month email all still sat on the table.
Emma put her bag down, shrugged off her jacket, and stood for a few minutes by the window. Her chest rose and fell quietly. She knew shed still do the dishes, ring her mother, reply to that email. But also, shed make time for her own windowa cup of tea, a page of her book, a short stroll around the block.
And that, she realised, mattered more than anything else.
The small moments you claim for yourself, however modest, are not selfishbut vital. Sometimes, the greatest freedom is giving ourselves permission not to rush.
