Auntie Rita’s Whimsical Adventures

June 3, 2025 Diary

Im fortyseven now, a plainspoken bloke from the north of England. Ive never been married and Ive never felt the urge to tie the knot; men, in my view, are mostly just grubhungry creatures who fancy nothing more than a good sofa and a cold pint. No one has ever asked me out, so Ive simply settled into my routine. My parents are in a retirement home in Carlisle; theyre the only family I have. I have no siblings, and the few cousins I do have I keep at arms length.

For the past fifteen years Ive been working a ninetofive job in a London finance firm, commuting each day from a modest flat in a leafy suburb. My life is a straightforward loop of work, home, and the occasional trip back up north for the holidays. Im a rather cynical sort, not fond of children, and I keep my emotions wellguarded.

On Christmas I drove up to Carlisle to see Mum and Dad, as I do once a year. That morning I decided to tackle the freezer in the kitchen a pile of old dumplings, battered fish cakes, and other leftovers that had been bought and forgotten. I packed them into a box, called the lift, and stepped in. A sevenyearold lad named Harry was in the lift with his mother and a newborn sibling. He stared at the box, then, as the doors opened, he followed me to the bin and shyly asked, Can I have some? I told him it was just old food, but then thought, why not? It wasnt spoiled.

He clutched the small bags to his chest, whispering that his mother was ill and his sister couldnt get up. I felt a pang I hadnt expected. After leaving the building I turned back, and the thought of that boy lingered, refusing to leave my mind. Though Id never been the charitable type, something inside me shifted. I grabbed whatever edible stuff I could find a few slices of ham, some cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, an onion, even a piece of meat from the freezer and headed back toward the lift, not knowing which floor they lived on.

Two floors up a door opened for me. The boy, Harry, seemed surprised, then quietly stepped aside. Inside the flat was sparse but spotless. A young woman, Molly, lay curled on the bed, a baby beside her. A basin of warm water and ragged towels were on the table; she was clearly feverish, shivering. Her little girl, Lucy, slept uneasily, a low moan escaping her chest.

I asked Harry if there were any tablets. He showed me a few old, expired pills that should have been tossed long ago. I touched Mollys forehead; she was burning hot. She opened her eyes, stared at me with confusion, then demanded, Wheres Anton? I told her I was just a neighbour. I asked about their symptoms and called an ambulance. While we waited, I offered Molly a cup of tea and a slice of ham, which she devoured without pause she was clearly famished.

The paramedics arrived, examined them, and prescribed a slew of medicines plus an injection for the baby. I hurried to the chemist, bought everything, then popped into a supermarket for milk, baby formula, and, on impulse, a brightgreen toy monkey that Id never bought for a child before.

Molly, 26, grew up on the outskirts of Sheffield. Her mother, a Manchester native, married a local mechanic and moved there. When Molly was born, her father died in a factory accident, leaving her mother jobless and ill with tuberculosis. Neighbours helped them, but the mother succumbed within three years, leaving Molly in the care of her grandmother, a hardbitten woman who smoked incessantly and hoarded whatever she could.

At sixteen Molly took a job as a shop assistant, later moving to the cash desk. When her grandmother passed, Molly was on her own. At eighteen she dated a lad who promised marriage, but after she fell pregnant he vanished. She kept working, saving pennies, because there was no one else to rely on. When her baby was born, she was left alone in a cramped flat, cleaning stairwells to make ends meet. The shop owner, who had taken her back, turned out to be a monster; after the child grew a bit he began to assault her, threatening to fire her if she complained. When he learned she was pregnant again, he tossed her a £120 cheque and told her to disappear.

Molly told me all this that evening, thanking me for the food and medicine. She promised to repay me by cleaning or cooking. I left her a small sum, but the night kept me awake. I wondered why Id ever cared for anyone, why Id neglected my own parents, why Id hoarded money that now seemed pointless. In the morning Anton, a neighbour, knocked with a plate of freshly fried crumpets and vanished as quickly as hed appeared. Holding that warm plate on my doorstep, I felt a thaw in my chest, as if the heat was melting the ice Id built around myself. I wanted to laugh, weep, and eat all at once.

A short walk from my block is a modest shopping centre. The owner of a tiny childrens boutique, unable to guess my size, offered to accompany me to the shop perhaps she thought Id spend a lot, or perhaps she was moved by the glimpse of my concern. An hour later four large bags of childrens clothing sat on her counter: jackets for boys and dresses for girls. I also bought a duvet, pillows, some bedding, a bulk of groceries, and a bottle of vitamins. I felt, for the first time in years, that I was useful.

Ten days have passed. They now call me Uncle John and Molly is a brilliant seamstress. My flat feels cozier, and Ive started phoning my parents more often, sending them messages of goodwill for sick kids. I cant believe how hollow my life was before. Each evening after work I race home, knowing someones waiting for me. In spring well all travel together to Carlisle; the train tickets are already booked.

Lesson learned: a life spent only on oneself turns cold and empty, but a single act of kindness can melt the ice and reveal a warmth that makes even the bleakest routine worth living.