Two Columns She’d already slipped off her boots and set the kettle to boil when her manager’s messa…

Two Columns

Shed already taken off her boots and popped the kettle on when a message from her manager flashed up: Can you cover for Sarah tomorrow? Shes got a temperature and theres no one else for the shift. Her hands were wet from the washing-up, and now the screen was streaked. She wiped her palms on the tea towel, glanced at the calendar on her phone. Tomorrow was the only evening shed meant to go to bed early and not answer to anyonereport due in the morning and her head was already throbbing.

She started typing, I cant, Ive gotand stopped. That old familiar churning feeling rose up; if you say no, youre letting them down. Means youre not the dependable one. She deleted it, typed back: Yes, I can. Sent it.

The kettle whistled. She poured herself a mug, sat on the stool by the window and opened the note on her phone, the one she simply titled Kindnesses. Todays date was already there with the line: Covered Sarahs shift. She put a full stop and tacked on a little plus sign at the end, as if that made things right.

Shed kept that note for nearly a year, since last January, when the post-Christmas hush felt too empty and she needed proof the days werent slipping away unnoticed. Back then, the first line she wrote was: Gave Mrs Newton a lift to the surgery. Mrs Newton from the fifth floor walked slowly, clutching her test results, and was too uneasy about getting the bus. Shed buzzed the door: Youre driving in, arent you love? Give us a lift or Ill miss my appointment. So she did. Waited in the car as Mrs Newton had her blood taken and brought her back.

On the way home she caught herself feeling annoyed. She was late for work; other peoples grumbling about NHS queues and doctors already circling in her mind. The irritation was shameful, so she swallowed it down, sipped coffee from the petrol station. In the note, she wrote it down as if it were something simple and selfless.

In February, her son had to travel for business, dropping her grandson round at the weekend. Youre at home, its not trouble for you, he said, more statement than request. The boy was a bright spark, noisy, with a constant look, Gran, come on, play with me. She loved him, but by the evening her hands would tremble, head ringing as though shed been to a gig.

Once he was tucked up in bed, she did the washing up, put his toys in a boxhed only tip them out in the morning. On Sunday, when her son collected him, she managed, Im exhausted. He smiled as if she were joking: Youre a granits what you do and kissed her cheek. The note that day read: Watched grandson for two days. She added a heart, so it felt less like a chore.

In March her cousin phoned, asking to borrow some cash till payday. For my prescriptions, you know how it is, she said. She did. Transferred the money, didnt ask when itd be returned. She sat at her kitchen table later, budgeting what was left and shelving the idea of that new coat shed been eyeingher old one was looking worn at the elbows, but it wasnt a luxury.

In the note: Helped out my cousin. She didnt jot: Put off buying for myself. That felt like a little thing, hardly worth mentioning.

In April at work, one of the younger women had locked herself in the loo, red-eyed, in tears. Hes left me. No one needs me, she kept repeating. She knocked gently: Open upIm here. They sat on the stairwell, thick with paint fumes still, and she listened, really listened, until it got dark and she missed the back exercises the physio prescribed.

At home she collapsed onto the sofa, aching all down her lower back. She wanted to be cross with the girl, but the anger was really at herself: why cant I just say, I need to be getting home? The note read: Listened to Emily, comforted her. She wrote the name, it felt kinder. Yet again she left out: Skipped what I needed.

Come June, she gave a colleague a lift to her allotment because her car had broken down. The colleague spent the journey on hands-free, arguing with her husband, never asked if it suited her. She said nothing, just stared at the traffic. At the plot, her colleague grabbed her bags and said, Thanks, you were headed this way anyway. She wasnt. Shed now have to battle home through rush hour, missed a visit to her mum, and her mum sulked afterwards.

The note read: Drove Jane to allotment. The words headed this way stung, and she stared at the phone until the screen faded.

August, in the dead of night, her mum rang. Her voice thin, scared: Im not well, love, my blood pressureIm frightened. She leapt up, wriggled into a coat, called a cab across the silent city. At her mums flat it was stifling, the blood pressure monitor and tablets scattered across a saucer. She measured, handed out the pills, sat quietly while her mum nodded off.

Next morning she headed straight to work, didnt go home first. On the Tube her eyelids drooped, panicking shed miss her stop. In her note: Stayed with Mum at night. She nearly added an exclamation mark, then erased itlike that might be too much.

As autumn came, the list snowballed, scrolling on and on. The longer it grew, the more she wondered if she was living or just tallying up balance sheets. Like love was something you could audit, and this collection of receipts was kept in case someone asked, So, what do you actually do?

She tried to remember when the record last had anything about her in it. Something for her, not just for them. It was all about otherstheir aches, their asks, their plans. Her needs looked like indulgences to be hidden.

October brought a scene that wasnt loud, but it left a mark. Shed popped round to her sons house to drop off some documents hed asked her to print. Standing in the hallway, clutching the folder as he rummaged for keys, on the phone, her grandson whizzing circles, demanding cartoons. Her son covered the receiver and tossed over his shoulder, Mum, since youre here, could you swing by the shops? Were out of milk and bread, I wont have time.

She said: I am rather tired, actually. He didnt even look up, just shrugged: But you can. You always can. Then back to his call.

Those wordsmore a fact than a requestfelt like a stamp. She felt something hot rise up, and with it, shamefor wanting to say no, for not wanting to be ever-accommodating.

But she went to the shop anyway. Bought the milk, bread, some apples too, because her grandson liked them. Left the bags on the table, heard his even Thanks, Mum, like ticking a box. She smiled as best she could, made her way home.

When she got in, she opened her Kindnesses note: Bought supplies for my son. She stared at the line for ages. Her fingers trembled, not with fatigue, but with anger. She realised the list wasnt supportive any more. It had become a leash.

By November, her back was worseshe couldnt stand in the kitchen for long. She finally booked a GP appointment online, picked a Saturday morning so she wouldnt need time off. The evening before, her mum called: You coming round tomorrow? I need the chemist, and I dont want to be alone.

She replied, Ive got a doctors appointment. Her mum hesitated, then sighed: Right. Means Im not needed any more.

That one always worked. Shed usually rush to reassure, promise to reschedule, shuffle her own things. She nearly blurted, Ill come after the doctor, but paused. It wasnt stubbornness, just exhaustionlike realising at last her life mattered, too.

She said quietly, Ill come after lunch, Mum. I need to see the doctor.

Her mum sighed, wounded: Alright, then. Everything was wrapped up in that alrightthe guilt, the habit.

She hardly slept. Dreamt of running down corridors clutching files, every door slamming shut. In the morning she made porridge, took the tablets from the first aid tin, left the flat. In the waiting room she listened to strangers talk of prescriptions and pensions, thinking not about diagnosis, but how odd it felt to finally do something for herselfand how strange and frightening that was.

Afterward, she went to her mums, as promised. Collected the medicine, hiked to the third floor. Her mum answered silently, then finally asked, Well? Been?

She replied, Yes. I needed to. No excuses.

Her mum looked at her searchingly, as if seeing a person and not a convenience for the very first time. Then looked away, headed to the kitchen. On her way home that evening, a curious relief settled in her chestnot joy, just space.

By December, years end approaching, she noticed she was looking forward to the weekend not as a breather, but as possibility. On Saturday her son texted again: Can you have your grandson for a couple of hours? We need to get things done. She glanced at the phone and automatically began typing Yes.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, the phone warm in her hand, the room quiet apart from the ticking radiator, she remembered her plan for the day. Shed wanted to go to town, to the gallery and the exhibition shed put off for months. She just wanted to wander among the paintings, in silence, with no one asking about socks or whats for supper.

She replied: I cant today, I have plans. Sent it, put the phone face down as though that would make what followed easier to bear.

His reply came quickly. Alright then. Then: Are you upset?

She turned the phone over, read the message, felt that pull inside to explain, to justify, to smooth it all over. She could type a long one: that she was tired, she needed her own life, too. Except she knew lengthy explanations only led to bargaining and she didnt feel like bartering for her own existence.

She wrote: No. Its just important to me. Nothing else.

She assembled herself calmly, as if heading out to work. Checked the iron was off, windows shut, purse, bank card, charger. At the bus stop, stood among people with bags and rucksacks, and suddenly realisedthere was no one needing rescuing, not right now. It felt unfamiliar, but not frightening.

In the museum she moved slowly. Looked at faces on portraits, hands, the light in painted windows. It felt as if she were learning to be attentive again, but this time to herself, not just to others needs. She had coffee at a little café, bought a postcard of a painting, slipped it into her bag. The card was stiff, its roughness pleasant between her fingers.

Back home, she left her phone in her bag awhile. Took off her coat, hung it up, washed her hands, put the kettle on. Sat at the table, opened her Kindnesses note, and scrolled to today.

She stared at the blank line for a long time. Then clicked plus and typed: Went to museum on my own. Chose myself over someone elses request.

She paused. The words over someone elses request sounded too heavy, accusatory. She deleted them, changed it to: Went to museum on my own. Looked after myself.

Then she did something new. At the top of the note, she wrote two headings and split the list. On the left: For others. On the right: For myself.

For now, For myself only had one entry. She stared at it and felt something important shift inside, like a spine aligning after physio. She didnt need to prove to anyone she was good. She just needed to remember she existed.

Her phone buzzed again. She didnt hurry. Poured her tea, took a sip, only then looked. Mum had sent a brief: How are you?

She replied: Im fine. Ill pop by tomorrow, bring you some bread. And added, before sending: I was busy today.

Sent, and left the phone on the table, face up. The flat was quiet, but now the silence didnt press. It felt like a space, finally, made just for her.