Aunt Rita I’m 47 years old. Just an ordinary woman. You could call me a wallflower—plain looking, nowhere near a good figure. Lonely. Never been married, never wanted to be; I believe all men are basically the same—just animals out for a full belly and the sofa. Not that anyone ever asked me out or proposed anyway. My elderly parents live in Norwich. I’m an only child—no sisters, no brothers. There are distant cousins, but I don’t speak to them, nor do I want to. I’ve been working and living in London for 15 years now. I’m at an office job, the usual work-to-home routine. I live in a typical high-rise in a residential neighbourhood. I’m bitter, cynical, don’t love anyone. Don’t like children. For Christmas, I went to Norwich to visit my parents. Once a year, I go home. This year was the same—I came back and decided to clean the fridge. Threw out all the old frozen dinners—ready meals, fish fingers, stuff I bought but didn’t like. Bagged it all up and went to chuck it away. Took the lift down, and there’s a boy, about seven. I’ve seen him with his mother and a baby, thought to myself, “She’s got a handful!” He stares at my box. We exit; I head for the bins, he follows. A timid voice: “Can I have that?” I tell him, “It’s old!” But then I think if he wants it, let him have it—it’s not rotten. As I walk away, I glance back; he’s carefully taking the bag, clutching it to his chest. “Where’s your mum?” I ask. “She’s sick, and my baby sister too. Mum can’t get up.” I turn and head home. Go into my flat, start making dinner. I sit and think. The boy won’t leave my mind. I’m not the caring type, never felt obliged to help. But something pushes me; I grab whatever food I have: ham, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions—snatch a hunk of meat from the freezer. Realise in the lift I don’t even know which floor they’re on. Head up, floor by floor, and after two floors, the boy opens the door. At first, he’s unsure, then lets me in. The flat is sparse but spotless. His mum’s curled on the bed next to the baby, a basin of water and flannels on the table—clearly fighting a fever. The girl is asleep, breathing raspy. “Got medicine?” I ask the boy. He shows me some ancient, expired tablets, useless. I check the mum’s forehead—burning. She wakes and stares at me, confused. Sits up: “Where’s Anton?” I say I’m a neighbour. Ask about their symptoms, call an ambulance. While we wait, I make her tea and a sandwich. She eats in silence—starving, clearly. How was she breastfeeding? The paramedics arrive, check them over, prescribe a heap of medicines and injections for the little one. I dash to the pharmacy, buy everything, then hit the shop for milk and baby food. On a whim, I buy a garish yellow monkey toy—I’ve never bought a child a present before. Her name is Ann, 26 years old. From the fringes of Manchester. Her mum and grandma were Londoners, but her mum married a man from Manchester and moved there, worked in a factory; he was a technician. When Ann was born, her father was electrocuted at work. Her mum, jobless, left with a baby, started drinking heavily, lost it in three years. Neighbours somehow tracked down Ann’s grandma in London, who took her in. When she was 15, gran told her the lot—even that her mum died of TB. Grandma wasn’t chatty, was stingy, and chain-smoked. At 16, Ann worked at a corner shop—packing, then cashiering. A year later, gran died. Ann was on her own. At 18, she dated a guy who promised marriage; after she got pregnant, he vanished. She worked until she could barely stand, saved every penny; she knew there was no one to help. After the baby, she started leaving him home while she cleaned stairwells. The baby girl came about when the shop owner she’d returned to work for after her son grew up started raping her, threatening to fire her and ruin her prospects if she told. When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her 200 quid and told her never to return. That night, she told me all this, thanked me for everything, insisted she’d work it off with cleaning or cooking. I stopped her thanks and left. Didn’t sleep a wink that night. Thought about my own life, why I am how I am—never caring for my parents, never calling, loving no one. Hoarding my savings with no one to spend it on. And here’s someone else’s fate—nothing to eat, no money for medicine. Morning comes; Anton appears, hands me a plate of pancakes, and scurries away. I stand at my doorway holding the warm plate, feeling the heat thaw something inside me. Suddenly, I want to laugh, cry, and eat all at once. Near our block, there’s a small shopping centre where a lady runs a children’s boutique. She couldn’t pin down the sizes I needed, so she even agreed to come with me to their place! Was it wanting to make a sale, or was she moved by my care? Who knows. In an hour, there were four huge bags of clothes for the boy and girl. I bought duvets and pillows, bedding, food, even vitamins. I wanted to buy everything. For once, I felt needed. Ten days have passed. They call me Auntie Rita now. Ann’s a dab hand at crafts—my flat is cosier. I’ve started calling my parents, texting ‘HELP’ donations for sick kids. I can’t fathom how I ever lived before. Every day after work, I rush home. I know someone’s waiting for me. And this spring, we’re off to Norwich together. We’ve already bought the train tickets.

Auntie Rita

Im forty-seven. Nothing special about me just an ordinary woman, invisible, really, a proper wallflower. Plain, not blessed with a trim figure. Alone. Never married, and I dont want to. Ive always believed men are much the same selfish brutes, content with a full belly and a sofa to sprawl on. Not that anyone ever asked me, for marriage or even a date. No sister or brother, just me. My elderly parents live up in Newcastle. I havent seen my cousins in years, nor do I wish to. Lifes simpler that way.

Ive been living and working in London now for a good fifteen years. My jobs a bureaucratic spot in a dull office: every day, its just work and home again. The flats in a nondescript tower block in the suburbs.

Ill admit, Im bitter, and more than a little cynical. I love no one. I certainly dont care for children. At Christmas, I went to Newcastle to see my folks my annual pilgrimage. This year was no different. After I returned to London, I decided to clear the freezer: the usual frozen rubbish, pasties and fish fingers Id once bought and never fancied. I packed them all into a box and headed down to the bins.

Calling the lift, I found a young boy inside, couldnt have been older than seven. Id seen him around with his mother and a baby in a pram. I remember thinking, rather nastily, Some people just have no shame. His eyes lingered on my box of food as we descended. When we got out, I walked toward the bins, him trailing after me. Then a small voice, timid: Could I have those? I told him, Its all old stuff, but then I thought he wants it, why not? Its not rotten. When I turned to leave, I glanced back. He was carefully gathering the food, pressing the bags tight against his small chest. I asked, Wheres your mum? Shes ill. My little sister too, he whispered. She cant get up. I pivoted and went straight home. Back in my flat, I put some food on the hob. Sat down. That boy wouldnt leave my mind. I wasnt compassionate, never had any urge to help. But something nagged at me inside. Impulsively, I stuffed a bag with whatever I had: ham, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions, even a joint of beef from the freezer. Then it hit me I didnt even know their floor. Just that they lived somewhere above. So I went up, floor by floor, and luck found me on the second one when the boy opened the door. At first bewildered, he quickly stepped aside, letting me in.

Inside, it was spotless but painfully bare. His mother was curled up on a bed beside her baby. A bowl and flannels on the table someone had been fighting a fever. The little girl, chest rattling, was laid there too. Do you have any medicine? I asked. He produced a battered box all expired. I touched the womans forehead, burning hot. She blinked, confused, then shot upright: Wheres Tom? I explained I lived downstairs and asked about their symptoms. I rang for an ambulance. As we waited, I brewed tea and made her a sandwich. She ate without a word, clearly ravenous. How did she have anything to give the baby?

The doctors arrived, examined them, prescribed a mountain of medicine and jabs for the little one. I dashed to Boots and bought everything, then stopped at Tesco: grabbed milk, toddlers food even a strange garish monkey toy caught my eye. Id never bought a childs gift before.

Her names Hannah, twenty-six. Grew up in Northampton, or just outside. Her mother, a Londoner, married a local man. They moved there; she worked in a packing plant, he fixed machines. When Hannah was born, her dad died in an accident at work. Her mum lost herself in drink, gone within three years. Somehow, neighbours tracked down Hannahs gran in London, who took her in. Gran was tight-lipped, smoked to the rafters, and not one for affection. When Hannah turned fifteen, Gran told her everything how her mother died of TB, how alone theyd been. Hannah started working at a nearby corner shop: first stacking shelves, then brave enough for the till. Gran passed when she was sixteen and Hannah was left alone. At eighteen she fell for a boy; he promised marriage, but as soon as she was pregnant, he vanished. She kept saving, knowing thered be no help. When her son was born, shed leave him sleeping alone in the flat and clean stairwells for extra cash. She had a daughter later, but only after the shop owner, an old brute, started forcing himself on her after hours, threatening her job if she refused. When he found out she was expecting, he shoved £100 at her and told her never to come back.

She told me all this that first evening, thanked me profusely, promising to earn everything back by cleaning or cooking for me. I stopped her, said it wasnt necessary, and left. That night, I couldnt sleep. I lay there, thinking, questioning everything: what do I live for, and why am I like this? I barely check on my own parents anymore. Ive saved and saved but for whom? Suddenly, strangers have nothing nothing to eat, nothing for medicine.

The next morning, Tom knocked at my door and quietly handed me a plate of scones before scampering off. I stood there, warmth from the scones seeping through the plate, and something inside me began to thaw. I wanted everything at once: to cry, to laugh, to eat.

Down the road, theres a small shopping centre. The owner of the childrens shop there, uncertain of sizes, even came back with me to measure the kids in person maybe she saw I was serious about buying, or maybe the story touched her. An hour later, four huge bags were stacked in their hallway clothes for both children. I bought blankets, pillows, linen, and heaps of groceries. Even vitamins. It made me feel, at last, like I mattered to someone.

Its been ten days. They call me Auntie Rita now. Hannahs wonderful with her hands my flat looks homier than ever. Ive started ringing my parents, even sending texts with HOPE to childrens charities. I dont know how I ever lived before. Now, every day after work, I hurry home. I know Im wanted. And this spring were all going up to Newcastle. Together. Train tickets already sorted.