Two Columns
She’d just kicked off her boots and popped the kettle on when her manager’s message flickered up on WhatsApp: Can you cover for Susan tomorrow? She’s come down poorly and theres no one else for the shift. Her fingers, slick from rinsing a mug, smeared prints across her phone screen. She wiped her hands dry on a tea towel and checked her calendar. Tomorrow was the one evening shed promised herself shed go to bed early and ignore the worldreports due the next morning, her head still throbbing.
She began typing: Sorry, I can’t, I have… and stopped. That churning in her stomach welled upthe one she knew so well: if you say no, youve let them down. Not one of the reliable ones. She deleted the words and typed, short and sharp: Yes, Ill come in. Sent.
The kettle boiled. She poured tea into a mug, perched on the kitchen stool by the window, and pulled up her note, the one she simply called Kindnesses. The date was already there, and the newest line: Covered Susans shift. She set a full stop and added a small plus, as if that made it balance out.
The note had been with her almost a year now. Shed started it last January, when the post-Christmas quiet felt cavernous and she needed to believe the days left some imprint. The first line back then: Drove Mrs Newton to the surgery. Mrs Newton from the fifth floor, who, clutching her bag of test results, was terrified of the bus and rang her up: Youre driving, arent you? Please, Id never make it otherwise. Shed waited in the car till Mrs Newton gave blood, then took her home again.
Driving back, irritation curdled inside hershed be late for work, yet her mind was already flooded with other peoples complaints about GPs and NHS queues. The irritation made her ashamed, so she gulped it down, washing it away at the petrol station with a quick takeaway coffee. Later, she recorded only the kindness, careful and clean, in her note.
February brought a work trip for her son, and he dropped her grandson off for the weekend. Youll be in, its no bother for you, he declared, not asked. The boy was a bundle of noise and endless Look, Granny! She adored him, but by evening her hands trembled with fatigue, head ringing as if from a concert.
She got him to bed, washed up, packed toys awaythe ones hed only tip out again at dawn. By Sunday, when her son collected him, shed muttered Im worn out. He grinned, as if it were a joke: Youre a gran, arent you? and kissed her cheek. In the note: Looked after grandson for two days. She put a heart next to it, to make it feel less like duty.
In March, a cousin rang for a loan till payday. Its for my prescriptions, you understand. She understood. Transferred the money and didnt ask when itd come back. Sat in her kitchen later, counting every pound until next months wages, giving upagainon that new coat shed needed. Her old one was shiny at the elbows. On the list: Helped out cousin. She left out, Put my own needs aside. It felt a trivial thing, not worth recording.
April, at work, one of the girls ended up locked in the loo, crying so quietly. She was heartbroken. No one wants me, not really. She knocked: Its alright, love, open up. Im here. They sat on the stairwell, paint smells in the air, her listening as the girl circled her heartbreak. She listened till it was dark, sacrificing the back therapy class her GP had insisted on.
At home, her back ached wretchedly as she laid out on the sofa. She started to resent the girl, but the anger turned inward: why couldnt she ever say, I need to leave now? In the note: Listened to Lisa, offered support. She wrote her namewarmer that way. Again, she left out, Skipped my own plans.
By June, shed given a lift to a colleague and all her groceries out to a cottage in Kentthe woman’s car had broken down. The colleague argued with her husband on loudspeaker the whole way and never once asked if the detour was alright. The woman unloaded, said, Thanks, you were heading this way anyway, and disappeared. She wasnt. She crawled home through traffic, missing her own visit to Mum, who afterwards sulked.
On the note: Drove Jane to her cottage. The words on my way itched unpleasantly on her mind, as if the screen burned her gaze.
That August, her mother rang late. Her voice was thin, uneasy: I don’t feel well, my blood pressures up, Im scared. She leapt up, threw on a jacket and ordered a cab across a silent town. Mum’s flat was stuffy, blood pressure monitor and pills scattered on a saucer. She measured, gave medicine, sat nearby until Mum fell asleep.
She went to work straight from there, not stopping home first. On the tube, her eyelids drooped; she worried she’d miss her stop. The note read: Stayed with Mum overnight. She put an exclamation mark, then erased ittoo loud, somehow.
Come autumn, the list sprawled. A ribbon of proof scrolling endlessly. And the longer it grew, the stranger her feeling: as if she wasnt living, just tendering a report. As if any love owed to her came stamped on a receiptshe archived these receipts, just in case someone ever said, But do you even do anything?
She tried to remember the last time shed written something truly for herself in that list. Not for her but for herself. Each entry was for othersfor their aches, their needs, their diaries. Her own wishes shrank, silly whims to be hidden.
October brought a scene, not explosive, but piercing just the same. She went to her sons, paperwork in hand as hed asked. She stood there, clutching the folder, while he hunted for his keys and argued on the phone. Grandson darted around, yelling for cartoons. Her son shielded the mouthpiece and lobbed, Mum, since you’re here, can you get us some milk and bread? We’re out and I won’t have time.
She retorted, I’m tired too, you know. He didnt meet her eye, just shrugged: But you can, can’t you? You always can. Then back to his call.
The words fell like a seal. Not a request, a statement. Heat flushed up inside her, then guiltguilt for wishing to say no. For suddenly not wanting to be the easy one.
Still, she bought milk, bread, and applesher grandson’s favourite. Set the bags down; another mechanical Thanks, Mum. Gratitude as perfunctory as a tick in a register. She smiled as she should, then left.
Back home, she typed: Bought groceries for my son. Stared and stared at the entry, fingers tremblingnot with fatigue, but anger. Something clear broke free: this list, her comfort before, had become a leash.
November at last, and shed finally booked a doctors appointmenther back pain now persistent, kitchen chores a struggle. She did it through NHS online in hopes itd go unnoticed at work, slotting it for early Saturday. On Friday night, Mum phoned: Will you pop by tomorrow? Theres the chemist, and I hate being alone.
Ive got a doctors appointment, she replied. Mum went silent. Then: Well then. I suppose Im not needed.
It always worked, that phrase. Shed leap to protest, reschedule everything. Her mouth was openthe urge to say, Ill come after, on her tonguebut she stopped. For the first time, she felt not stubborn, just tired, as if her own life had grown heavier, and she could finally notice.
Ill come after lunch, Mum, she said quietly. I need to see the doctor.
Mum heaved a sigh, wounded. Yes, alright, she said. And in that alright lay all of ithurt, manipulation, habit.
That night, sleep was patchy. She dreamt of endless corridors and locked doors. But she rose, cooked herself porridge, took tablets from the back of the cupboard, and went out. In the waiting room, she listened to others conversations about blood tests and pensions. Her mind wasnt on the diagnosisit was the odd, quaking feeling of doing something for herself.
After her check-up, she visited Mum as promised. Bought her medicines at Boots; climbed the stairs. Mum greeted her with silence but eventually asked, Did you go, then?
She nodded. I wentand, for once, didnt apologise. I needed to.
Mum peered at her, almost as if she were seeing her as a person and not just a function. Then she turned away to the kitchen. Later, as she walked home, something eased in her chesta new kind of space, if not yet happiness.
By December, she found herself longing for weekends as a chance rather than breathless hours off. One Saturday, her son texted again: Could you have your grandson for a couple of hours? Weve errands. Her fingers reflexively started typing yes before she stopped.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, phone warm in her hand, she remembered her plan: a visit to the National Gallery, the exhibition put off for months. A slow walk among paintings, and quietno one asking for socks, no meal requests.
She replied: Not today. Ive made other plans. Then turned her phone over, screen-down, like bracing against the answer.
A minute later, her son replied: Okay. Then, another: Are you cross?
She flipped the phone back, reading, and that old urge to justifyto soothe, to explainsurged. She could have written an essay: she was tired, she had a life too. But words turned into bargaining, and she didnt want to trade away herself again.
So she wrote only: No. Its just important to me. Nothing more.
She got ready as if for a job. Checked the iron, the windows, packed card and charger. Stood at the bus stop among shoppers and felt, for the first time in forever, she owed no one her rescue. It was unfamiliar, but it didnt frighten her.
She wandered the gallery slowly, drinking in faces on the canvases, hands and sunny panes. It felt like re-learning to pay attentionnot to pleas, but to herself. Coffee in the little tearoom, a postcard from the gift shopher fingertip traced the textured card, relishing its weight.
Home again, she left her phone in her handbag, not snatching for notifications. Coat off, hands washed, kettle on. She sat at the kitchen table with Kindnesses, scrolling to todays blank space.
She sat there, just looking for a while, then tapped plus and wrote: Visited the gallery alone. Didnt take on anyone elses to-do instead of my own life.
Then paused. The words instead of my own life seemed too sharp, as if pointing a finger. She backspaced and wrote, simpler: Visited the gallery alone. Looked after myself.
And then she did something new: at the top of the list, she made two columns. On the left: For Others. On the right: For Myself.
So far, under For Myself was just the one entry. She stared at it, and something inside realigned, as if her spine had at last clicked straight after months. She didnt need to prove her goodness to anyone. She only needed to remember she existed.
Her phone buzzed once more. She didnt rush. Poured her tea, took a quiet sip. The screen read: Mum: How are you?
She typed back: Im fine. Ill bring bread by tomorrow. And, for the first time, added: I was busy today.
Sent. Set the phone on the table, screen up. Some hush settled in the flatnot oppressive, but like a space newly cleared, waiting just for her.
