Aunt Rita I’m 47 years old. Just an ordinary woman—a bit of a wallflower, not attractive, not blessed with a great figure. Lonely. Never been married, never wanted to be, because I believe most men are all the same—interested only in stuffing their faces and lounging on the sofa. Not that anyone’s ever proposed or asked me out, for that matter. My elderly parents live up in Newcastle. I’m an only child—no brothers or sisters. I do have cousins, but I don’t keep in touch. Nor do I want to. I’ve lived and worked in London for 15 years, in a regular office job. Each day is work and home, work and home. I live in a standard block of flats in a typical residential neighbourhood. I’m bitter, cynical—I don’t love anyone. I don’t like children. At Christmas, I went to visit my parents in Newcastle, as I do once a year. When I got back, I decided to clean out my fridge, throwing away old frozen food—dumplings, burgers, things I’d bought and never liked. I bundled it all up in a box to toss it out. In the lift, there was a little boy, maybe seven; I’d seen him with his mum and a baby sibling before. I even thought, “Some people—she’s gone and had another one!” The boy stared at my box. When we got out, he quietly followed me to the bins and asked in a timid voice if he could have the food. I warned it was old, but let him take it—none of it was rotten, after all. As I turned to leave, I watched him gently pick up the packets, close them up, and clutch them to his chest. I asked where his mum was. He told me she and his sister were ill—couldn’t get out of bed. I went back home and started cooking dinner, but couldn’t get that boy out of my mind. I’m not usually inclined to help, but something nudged me. I grabbed what I had in the kitchen: sausage, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even some meat from the freezer. I realised I hadn’t a clue what floor their flat was on, but knew it was above mine, so I worked my way up, floor by floor. I got lucky; after two flights, the boy opened the door. He hesitated, but let me in. The flat was poor but spotless. His mum lay curled up on the bed next to her youngest, a bowl of water and cloths on the table. High fever, trying to cool her daughter down. The medicine they had was long out-of-date. I felt her mum’s forehead—hot as a stove. She woke and stared at me in confusion, then suddenly sat up, asking where her son was. I explained I was a neighbour and quickly got the details before calling for a paramedic. While we waited, I gave her tea and sausage—she wolfed it down, must have been starving. Barely able to feed herself, yet still breastfeeding her baby. The ambulance came, checked them over, wrote out a long list of medicines and injections needed for the little girl. I went out, picked up everything from the pharmacy and groceries for them, plus—on a whim—a ridiculous neon yellow monkey toy. I’ve never bought a child a present before. Her name’s Anna, she’s 26. She grew up in Manchester’s outskirts. Her mum and gran were Londoners, but her mum married a local and moved up there to work in a factory. Anna’s dad died in an accident at work. Her mum was left alone, jobless, and quickly spiralled into trouble. By the time Anna was three, neighbours contacted her granny in London, who took her in. When Anna was 15, her gran told her the truth—her mother died of tuberculosis. The gran hardly spoke, was miserly, and chain-smoked. At 16, Anna took a job at the nearest shop, first as a shelf-stacker, then at the till. Her gran died a year later. At 18, Anna dated a boy who promised everything but disappeared as soon as she became pregnant. She kept working, saving up, knowing there was no one to help. When her son was a month old, she’d started leaving him on his own so she could clean stairways and make ends meet. As for her daughter—the shop owner she went back to, when her son was older, raped her repeatedly and threatened to have her fired so she could never work again. When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her £100 and told her never to come back. Anna told me all this that night—thanked me, said she’d repay me by cleaning or cooking. I stopped her, said goodnight, and left. I couldn’t sleep at all, thinking, “Why do I live like this? Why am I so cold? I don’t care for anyone, not even my own parents. I have all this money saved with no one to spend it on, and here’s a little family with nothing—not even enough to get well.” The next morning, the little boy, Anton, brought me a plate of homemade pancakes and dashed off. I stood there, plate in hand, feeling warmth coming from the food, spreading through me as if I were thawing out. Suddenly, I wanted everything at once: to cry, to laugh, to eat. Not far from our block is a small shopping centre. The owner of a children’s shop there, after some confusion over sizes, even offered to come with me to Anna’s flat. I don’t know if she wanted the business, having seen I’d buy a lot, or was just moved by my mission. An hour later, four huge bags of clothes for the kids stood in Anna’s hallway. I bought bedding, food, vitamins, even toys. I wanted to buy everything—I finally felt needed. It’s been 10 days now. They call me Aunt Rita. Anna is quite the crafty homemaker—my flat feels cosier already. I’ve started calling my parents. I even text ‘KINDNESS’ to children’s charity fundraisers. I can’t believe how I lived before. Every day after work I hurry home, because I know someone’s waiting. And this spring, we’re all heading up to Newcastle together—tickets have already been bought.

Aunt Rita

I’m 47 years old. Just an ordinary woman, nothing remarkable about me. You could say Im a bit of a wallflower. Not much to look at, not blessed with a great figure. Alone, and Ive never been marriednever really wanted to, to be honest. I reckon most men are alike: eat, laze around in front of the telly, not much else. Mind you, it’s not as if anyone has ever proposed, or even asked me out. My parents, now quite elderly, live up in Newcastle.

Im an only childno brothers or sisters to speak of, and I have some cousins, but we dont keep in touch. Im not bothered. Ive lived and worked in London for the last fifteen years. My job is nothing special, just another cog in the machine. Each days the same: work and back home again. I live in a typical block of flats on the outskirts.

If Im honest, Ive grown bitter and cynical over the years. I dont care much for people, never did like children. After all, who has the patience? At Christmas, I make my one trip home each year to see my parents in Newcastle. This year was the same. When I got back, I decided to sort out my fridge. It was full of old freezer stufffrozen pies, some sausages and burgers I never really took to. I bundled it all into a box to throw out.

As I called the lift, I noticed a young lad of about seven inside. Id seen him a few times with his mum, who always had a baby in tow. I remember thinking, Well, hasnt she been busy. The boy kept his eyes fixed on my box. When we got out, I headed for the bins and he followed. Then I heard his timid little voice: Can I have it? I told him, Its old! But something made me pauseif he wanted it so badly, let him. It wasnt rotten. As I walked away, I glanced back. He was carefully packing the food into bags, holding them close like treasure. I asked where his mum was. Shes sick, he said quietly, so is my baby sister. Mum cant get up. I turned and went back to my flat, put the kettle on.

I tried to carry on, but I couldnt shake the image of that boy from my mind. Ive never been the caring sort, never felt any urge to help before, but something moved me. Quickly, I grabbed what food I could find: a pack of ham, some cheese, a carton of milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, and even a bit of beef from the freezer. Downstairs, it occurred to me I had no idea where they lived, only that it was above me somewhere. So I started knocking, floor after floor, until two stories up, the same boy answered.

He hesitated at first but let me in without a word. Their flat was neat as a pin but terribly bare. His mum was curled up on the bed, the baby beside her. A basin with a flannel sat on the tableshe was clearly running a fever. Her daughter was wheezing in her sleep. Got any medicine? I asked the lad. He showed me some old, out-of-date pills. I went over, checked her foreheadburning hot. She looked up at me in confusion, then shot upright: Wheres Jack? I told her I was a neighbour and asked about their symptoms, then rang for an emergency doctor. While we waited, I made her some tea and a sandwich. She ate without a word, obviously starving. How she was still breastfeeding Ill never know.

When the doctors arrived, they examined both and prescribed a slew of medicines and even injections for the little girl. I dashed out to the chemist’s, bought everything, then stocked up on milk, food for the baby, andwithout really thinkinga garish yellow monkey toy for the girl. Ive never bought a child a present before in my life.

Her names Anna, shes 26. She grew up in a small town outside Manchester. Her mum and gran were from London until her mum married a local bloke and they moved north. Annas dad was killed at work by an electrical accident soon after she was born. Her mum, left jobless, began to go off the rails and was gone within three years. Some neighbour tracked down Annas grandmother in London, who brought her up. When she turned fifteen, Gran told her everythingeven that her mum had died of tuberculosis. Gran wasnt one for many words, smoked like a chimney, and pinched every penny.

At sixteen, Anna started working at the local corner shopfirst stacking shelves, then as a cashier. Gran died a year later, so Anna was left on her own. By eighteen, shed gotten involved with a chap who promised marriage but disappeared as soon as she fell pregnant. She saved every penny, knowing there was no one to rely on. When her son was born, she was already leaving him alone in the flat while she went off to clean stairwells. As for her daughter, Anna got pregnant after her boss, from the shop she returned to, started assaulting her in the eveningshe threatened to sack her if she complained or ever told. When he found out she was pregnant, he shoved a couple of hundred quid at her and told her never to come back.

Thats her storyshe told me all of it that evening. She thanked me over and over, offered to work off the money with cleaning or cooking, but I stopped her and left. I couldnt sleep a wink that night. I kept thinkingwhy am I like this? Why do I never call my parents, never care about anyone? I just hoard my pay, and it piles up, but theres no one to spend it on. Yet these strangers can barely eat, cant afford medicine.

The next morning, Jack brought round a plate of pancakes and dashed off again. I stood at my door, those warm pancakes in my hands, feeling their heat seep into meit was as though Id come alive for the first time in years. I suddenly wanted to cry, to laugh, to eateverything all at once.

Near our block, theres a small shopping centre. The lady who runs a little childrens shop there, clearly puzzled by my uncertainty about clothing sizes, even volunteered to come upstairs with me! Maybe she saw a chance of a big sale, or maybe she sensed my genuine concern. Not an hour later, four great bags of clothes for both children stood in Annas hall. I bought extra bedding and pillows, loads of food, even kids vitamins. I just wanted to give them everything. For the first time, I felt needed.

Ten days have gone by. They all call me Aunt Rita now. Annas brilliant with her hands and has made my flat far more welcoming than its ever been. Ive started phoning my parents regularly. I even text HELP to donate to sick childrens charities. I dont know how I lived before. Now, every day after work, I rush homebecause I know Im expected. And this spring, were all heading up to Newcastle together. Train tickets are already bought.