Just in case it rains
In the kitchen drawer, under a pack of spare AA batteries and some hair bobbles, theres a piece of paper folded four ways. I handle it less like a note and more like a tool: flattening it with my palm so it doesnt tremble, reading not with my eyes but with my whole bodylike someone checking instructions before they press a button.
At the top, written in blue biro, it says: Just in case it rains. Below is a list. Not be strong or pull yourself together, but small, tried and tested actions.
1. A glass of water. Then tea. Sit 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 on a scrap of paper the next three steps. No more.
5. Delegate: ask, pay, rearrange.
6. Walk the route: from home to the chemist through the courtyard, one lap round the school, back.
7. Say at home one honest sentence, no blame.
The list appeared after that day, two years ago, when I snapped in Tesco because the till froze, and someone behind me tutted impatiently. I fled without buying a thing, and spent the afternoon unable to explain what happened. The psychologist, in our first session, asked, What do you do when you feel overwhelmed? I replied, Nothing. I try not to feel. And it was clear nothing was an action too, only the most destructive one.
Today, I took out the paper not because things were already bad. More to check: its still there, so somewhere Ive got support. I folded it away, pressed the creases with my fingers, returned it to the drawer, and closed it.
On the table sat a tub of pasta, next to my sons school lunchbox. I checked Id packed his napkin, an apple, and a small bag of biscuits. His jacket hung in the hallway, his planner rested on the console. Everything was readywhich made me oddly anxious, like before a trip when youre sure youve forgotten something.
My son, Ben, came out of his room, zipping up his coat.
Mum, Ive got a maths test today.
I remember, I said, trying to smile in a way that hid my inner, please let there be no surprises.
My husband, Matt, already sipped coffee, staring at his laptop. He works shifts and today he needed to stop at the garage for parts, then head to a site.
Could you drop me off? I asked, lacing up my trainers.
I wont have time. Ive got a meeting at nine, he replied, not looking up.
I swallowed my usual annoyance. Wont have time sounded like dont want to, though I knew that wasnt true. I grabbed my bag, checked keys, card, charger.
The lift arrived fast, but on the ground floor the doors jerked and paused. I pressed the button again. Silence.
Mum, are we stuck? Ben looked at me with an oddly grown-up gaze.
No. Hold on. I pressed open and close, then call. The lift sighed and moved.
Inside, I felt a wave rise in my chest, like someone had tipped boiling water into me. Nothing had happened, but my body was already bracing for trouble.
Outside, I saw the bus pull away. At the stop, people muttered into phones or stared at nothing. I glanced at my watch. If we waited, Ben would be late.
Lets walk to the underground, I said. Quickly.
Ben dashed alongside me, trying to keep up. I held his sleeve tight so he wouldnt dart into the road. My mind mapped the day ahead: school, then work, then the call, then
At the underground entrance, my phone buzzed. The schools number.
Mrs. Green? The secretarys voice was polite and clipped. Ben hasnt brought his exemption note for PE. He says his knee hurts, but without the note we cant
I shut my eyes for a second.
He really does have pain. We saw the doctor, the notes at home, I forgot to pack it. I can send you a picture now?
We dont accept photos. Original only.
Ill bring it after work, I said, managing to keep my voice steady. Or I could ask my husband.
By twelve, the secretary said briskly.
I ended the call and felt something coil inside me. By twelve meant Id have to dash out of work. And today the report was due.
Ben stood nearby, waiting.
I didnt mean to, he said quietly.
I know. Go on, its all right, I replied, though all right felt miles away.
I walked him to the school gate, kissed his hair, then hurried back to the tube. The carriage was cramped, someone trod on my foot, another laughed loudly. I gripped the handrail and tried not to think about how the day was only beginning.
At the office, the smell of coffee and printer paper met me. The girl at the next desk looked up.
Emma, clients on the line. Wheres the final version? Theyre getting anxious.
I sat down, turned on my computer, and opened the folder. The file wasnt there. I checked again. Yesterday Id saved it to the shared driveor thought I had.
Just a moment, I said, feeling my palms dampen.
I opened my emails, hunted through the threads, tried to reconstruct the last steps. In my head flashed, Youve ruined everything, again. Old words, ones Id heard as a child, always surfacing precisely when I needed to just solve the problem.
My phone buzzedmum this time.
Emma, her voice was tense, The kitchen tap is leaking. I put a bowl underneath but water keeps dripping. Im worried Ill flood the neighbours.
I looked at my screen, at the empty folder, at the time.
Mum, Im at work right now. Turn off the water under the sinkthe valve, remember?
I cant twist it, its stiff.
Try with a tea towel for grip. If it wont budge, ring the emergency plumber. Ill text you their number.
Theyll come whenever, wont they.
I know. But I cant get there now. My voice grew sharp. Ill send the number, okay?
Mum paused.
Okay, she said quietly.
I hung up, guilt sinking onto me like a heavy rucksack. I wanted to be a good daughter, a good mother, a good employee and a sane person. In moments like this, I failed everywhere.
My manager poked her head in.
Emma, whats happening with the report? The clients waiting. And she lowered her voice, You sent a draft yesterday, the numbers didnt match up.
Flushed heat rose to my cheeks.
I Ill sort it now. Ill fix it.
Dont take too long, she said, and left.
Staring at my screen, I knew what would happenwhat Id done dozens of times. Id panic, rush, grab at everything, and make it worse. Already the familiar sticky panic crawled up, short on air.
I leaned back and closed my eyes for a breath. Just in case it rains, the phrase floated up, gentle as a hand on my shoulder.
I stood, grabbed my mug, and walked to the kitchen. Not for tea, but to change my posture and break the loop.
I poured myself water, drank it quickly. Then I set the kettle boiling, plopped a teabag in my mug. Sat at the window and looked out across the yard between the office blocks. Two minutes. Just two.
I breathed out longer than in, ten times. By the sixth exhale, my shoulders eased. At ten, my heart still thumped, but not like a siren.
Back at my desk, I pulled out my notebook and wrote at the top: Now.
1. Find the latest report version.
2. Call the client and honestly say when itll be ready.
3. Sort the note and the leaking tap.
Three steps. Not ten.
I checked the history on the shared drive. The file hadnt been deleted, just renamed. Yesterday, Id added the date to the filename and missed the order shift. I opened the document, fixed a formula error I spotted, recalculated, saved.
Next, I phoned the client.
Good morning. Emma Green here, I said calmly. Yesterday you got a draft with a mistake. Ive corrected it. Ill send the final version in forty minutes. If you need it sooner, let me know whats urgent.
Pause on the other end; then, a sigh.
Forty minutes is fine. Thanks for the heads-up.
I hung up, feeling a little island of solidity form inside. Not relief, or joyjust the ability to stand up.
Next: a call. One person out of three. I scrolled to Matt. I didnt want a repeat of not enough time, but now I needed real help, not perfection.
Matt, hi. This is quick. The school needs Bens note by noon. Its at home, on the console, under the planner. Could you drop it off?
Im across town, he started.
I breathed in, holding myself back.
I know, but if you dont, Ill have to leave work, and thats worse. Can someone from your site help? Or change your route?
He paused.
All right. Ill go home, grab it, and take it over. Text me a photo so I can spot it.
Thank you. Sending now.
I snapped a picture of the note I really had left on the console yesterday, sent it off. In my mind: This is delegation. Not heroismjust asking.
Mum and the tap remained. I sent her a text with the plumbers number and simple instructions: The valves under the sink, turn it fully right. If it sticks, use a tea towel. If youre worried, call the plumber, tell them the taps leaking, youre anxious about flooding. Then I rang.
Mum, I cant get there right now, I tried to sound gentle, but Ill stay on the phone while you try.
My hands are shaking, Mum confessed.
Well do it together. Where are you?
In the kitchen.
Good. Open the cupboard under the sink. Grab a tea towel, wrap it round the valve. Try to twist itslowly.
I listened to Mum shuffling, the clonk of the bowl.
It moved, she said after a minute, surprised. Oh. And the dripping stopped.
Perfect. Just dont turn the water back on until the plumber comes. Ill check it this evening.
Sorry for bothering you, Mum said.
You didnt bother me. You called at the right moment, I replied, surprised it was true.
I sent the report offforty minutes, as promised. My manager nodded, not smiling, but not critical either. My colleague gave me a thumbs up.
Youd think I could relax, but inside was still that tremble, like braking sharply in a car. I knew: if I just marched on with work now, by evening Id snap at the family.
At lunch I skipped the canteen. Grabbed my coat, phone, headphones, and stepped outside. The route was from the list: office to the chemist, round the school, back. Not because I needed anything, but because it was familiar, short, and free of surprises.
I walked briskly, counting steps not deliberately but as if my body needed a rhythm. At the chemist I bought plasters and chamomile tea, though I already had some at home. Let it bea material sign that says, Ive taken care.
On the way back, I stopped by the school fence, glanced at the windows. Somewhere up there Ben was taking his test. I wanted to text him, Hows it going? but didnt. Let him be in his world.
By evening, Matt texted: Dropped the note off. They said, all fine. Then a photo: the note in the security guards hands, school foyer in the background. I smiled, feeling another knot inside me loosen.
I got home later than usual, tired but not empty. The planner lay on the console, the note was gone. Matt had managed it, hadnt forgotten or mixed it up.
Ben was on the kitchen table, eating pasta.
Mum, I got a four, he announced, like it was everything.
Well done. I touched his shoulder. Your knee okay?
Its fine now. I was just scared itd hurt again.
I nodded. I wanted to say, Me too, I get scared, but that felt too much. I switched on the kettle, grabbed the chamomile tea Id bought, dropped a bag into my mug.
Matt came in, taking off his shoes.
How was your day? he asked.
The urge welled upto list, to present, to prove itd been tough. But the list had a point about one honest sentence, without blame.
I set the mug on the table and said:
I felt really all over the place today. Could you be with me tonight, no phone, just for half an hour?
Matt looked at me closer than he had this morning.
All right. After dinner. Im knackered, but Ill manage.
Thanks, I said, and realised it wasnt a concession or a win. It was an agreement.
After dinner, we sat in the living room. Matt placed his phone face down. Ben went to do his homework. I talked about the report, the school call, Mums leaking tapnot adding drama, just the order of things. Matt asked occasionally, nodded, said, Thats a lot. It was enough.
Later, I stopped in at Mums. Took a spanner and new washer Id bought at the hardware shop. Mum greeted me at the door, apologetic.
I kept thinking you were angry, she said.
I was angry, I admitted, taking off my jacket. But not with you. With not being everywhere, all at once.
Together we opened the cupboard under the sink. The valve was shut tight, bowl dry. I checked the pipe, tightened the nut, switched the washer. Water stopped dripping. It wasnt magic, just mechanics.
When I got home, the folded note still lay in the kitchen drawer. I took it out, unfolded it and looked at the bullet points. They didnt promise life would be smooth. Only that Ive got a set of actions for when things go wrong.
I added a new line at the bottom: 8. Ask for half an hour without phones. Thought for a moment, then scribbled beside it: It works.
Folded the paper up, returned it to the drawer, and shut it. The day wasnt perfect. But it wasnt a disaster anymore, and that was enough to go to bed believing Ill manage again tomorrow.
