Aunt Rita: The Story of a Lonely, Cynical London Woman Whose Life Changed After Meeting a Struggling Young Mother and Her Children in Her Council Flat Block

Author Wanda MirandaReading 7 minViews 3

Aunt Rita

Im 47. Just an ordinary woman, the sort most people dont notice. Dull as dishwater, really. Not much to look at, not blessed with a good figure. Im single, and always have been. Ive never fancied getting marriednot interested, really. In my opinion, most men are the same: just want to fill their bellies and slob about on the sofa. Not that anyones ever asked me out, let alone proposed. Not once. My parents are elderly now, living up in Newcastle. Im an only childno sisters or brothers. There are some cousins, but I keep my distance. Cant be bothered, to be honest.

Ive lived and worked in London for the last fifteen years. My lifes a routine: work, home, work, home. Ive got a flat in a rather drab block in a quiet neighbourhood.

Im a bitter, cynical woman, dont care for anyone, especially not children. Cant stand them. At Christmas, I made the trip up to Newcastle to see my parents, as I do once a year. This year was no different. After I got back, I decided to clean out the fridge. All those old leftovers and random frozen bitsfrozen pies, burgersstuff Id bought once, didnt like, and just left there. Gathered it all in a box to throw out. Called the lift, and there was a little lad inside, about seven. Id seen him before with his mum, and theres also a baby. Honestly, Id thought, Just what she neededanother mouth to feed! He was staring at the box in my arms. We got out, and as I headed toward the bins, he quietly followed.

Then, a nervous little voice: Can I have that? I told him, Its all old stuff! But then figured, if he wants it, why not? It wasnt off, anyway. As I walked away, I glanced back. He was gently gathering the food packets, clutching them to his chest. I asked, Wheres your mum? He said she was ill, and his little sister too. She cant get up, he added. I turned and went back to my flat, put the kettle on for a cup of tea and started dinner.

But I couldnt stop thinking about that boy. It unsettled mesomething about him stuck in my mind. Ive never had a soft spot or felt the urge to help anyone, but something made me act. I grabbed what food I couldsome ham, cheese, milk, biscuits, some potatoes and onions, even a bit of meat from the freezer. Out I went, realised by the lift that I didnt know which floor they lived onjust that it was somewhere above me. I started climbing the stairs, guessing. Wasnt long before the boy opened the door. At first, he was confused but quietly stepped back to let me in.

The flat was sparse but spotless. His mum lay curled up on the bed next to the baby, a bowl of water and some cloths on the tableshe must have been trying to bring a fever down. The little girl was asleep, wheezing a bit. Do you have any medicine? I asked the boy. He showed me some old, expiry-date pillsit was clear they shouldve been thrown out ages ago. I touched the womans foreheadit was burning hot. She woke, looked at me with confused eyes. Suddenly she sat up, Wheres Ben? I explained I was a neighbour, asked her symptoms, and called an ambulance. While we waited, I made her tea and a sandwich with ham. She ate hungrily, without a fussshe must have been starving. How did she even manage to breastfeed?

The paramedics checked them over, prescribed a heap of medicine for the baby, jabs as well. I nipped out, bought the lot from the chemist, stocked up on milk and baby food at the shop, and for some reason, even picked up a silly bright yellow monkeya toy. Ive never bought presents for kids before.

Her name is Annie. Shes 26. She grew up in Reading, though really on the outskirts. Her mum and nan were Londoners, but her mum married a chap from Reading and moved there. She worked in a local factory. Her dad was a technician in the same place. When Annie was born, her dad was killed in an accident at work. Her mum, with a baby to care for, lost her job and had no money. Friends and acquaintances came round, but things quickly spiralled downwards. Within three years, her mum was drinking heavily. The neighbours tracked down her nan in London, who took Annie in. When Annie turned fifteen, her nan told her everythingeven that her mum died of tuberculosis. Her nan was a tough old thing, tight-fisted, chain-smoked.

At sixteen, Annie started working in a local shopfirst stacking shelves, then on the till. When she was seventeen, her nan died, and Annie was left completely alone. At eighteen, she dated a lad who promised marriage, but after she got pregnant, he vanished. She worked right up until the baby was born, saving every penny, knowing there was no one to help her. A month after her sons birth, she already had to leave him alone in the flat while she cleaned stairwells just to get by. Later, when she went back to work at the shop, the manager raped her one night and kept doing it, threatening to sack her if she complained. When he found out she was pregnant, he gave her £100 and told her never to come back.

Thats her story. She told me all of it that night. Then thanked me, offered to repay me by cleaning or cooking. I stopped her with a look and left. I couldnt sleep a wink all night. I lay there, asking myself why I live the way I do. Why am I like this? I dont look after my parents, barely call them. I dont care about anyone. Ive saved a respectable sum, but have no one to spend it on. And here are strangers with nothing to eat or buy medicine.

The next morning, little Ben turned up at my door, handed me a plate of pancakes, and ran off. I stood there, holding the warm plate. That heat seeped into meI could feel myself thawing out for the first time in years. I wanted everything at once: to cry, laugh, and eat.

Just down the road from my building is a small shopping centre. The lady who runs a childrens shop there couldnt figure out what sizes I needed, so in the end, she even came with me! Im not sure if she just wanted a big saleafter all, it was a lotor if she was touched by the story. An hour later, we had four big bags of clothes for both children in their flat. I bought duvets, pillows, bedding, heaps of food. Even vitamins. I just wanted to keep buying. I finally felt needed.

Its been ten days now. They all call me Aunt Rita. Annies marvellous with her handsmy flats never looked so cosy. Ive started phoning my parents, even texting donations to sick children. I honestly cant remember how I lived before. Every evening after work, I rush home. I know theres someone waiting for me. And this spring, were all going up to Newcastle together. The train tickets are already booked.

Why Should It Matter Who Looked After Grandma? By Law, That Flat Should Be Mine! – My Mother Argues Bitterly With Me My Own Mother Is Threatening to Take Me to Court. Why? Because the Flat My Grandmother Left Didn’t Go To Her, Or Even to Me, But to My Daughter. My Mum Insists It’s Unfair—She Says Grandma’s Flat Should Have Been Hers. But Gran Made a Different Choice. Why? Probably Because My Husband and I Lived With Her and Cared for Her for the Last Five Years. You Could Easily Call My Mother Selfish. Her Own Desires Were Always More Important Than Anyone Else’s. She’s Been Married Three Times, but Only Had Two Children: Me and My Little Sister. My Sister and I Get On Brilliantly, but It’s Been Strained With Mum. I Don’t Even Remember My Dad. He Split Up With Mum When I Was Just Two. Until I Was Six, We Lived With Grandma. For Some Reason, I Thought Grandma Was Rather Unkind, Maybe Because Mum Was Always Crying. It Wasn’t Until I Grew Up That I Realised Grandma Was a Lovely Woman—She Just Wanted to Get Mum’s Life on Track. Later, Mum Remarried. I Ended Up Living With Her and My Stepfather. That’s When My Sister Was Born. Mum Stayed With Him for Seven Years, Then Divorced Again. This Time, No Return to Grandma’s. My Stepdad Moved Away for Work, But Let Us Stay in His Place. Three Years Later, Mum Married Again and We Moved in With Her New Husband. He Clearly Wasn’t Happy Mum Came With Children, But He Never Harmed Us—He Just Ignored Us. Mum Was Too Absorbed in Her Marriage to Notice Us. She Was Jealous, Always Making a Scene and Smashing Crockery. Once a Month, Mum Would Threaten to Leave, But Stepfather Always Stopped Her. My Sister and I Got Used to It. I Took On Looking After My Sister—Mum Didn’t Have Time. Thank Goodness for Both Our Grandmothers—they Helped an Enormous Amount. Later, I Went To University Accommodation, and My Sister Lived With Grandma. Dad Always Supported Her, While Mum Only Rang Us at Christmas and Easter. I Accepted Mum for Who She Was—Used to Her Not Caring, Not Worrying. But My Sister Never Did, Especially After Mum Didn’t Even Come to Her Graduation Party. We Grew Up. My Sister Married and Moved to Another City. Although My Boyfriend and I Had Been Together for Ages, We Didn’t Rush into Marriage. We Lived Together in a Rented Flat and I Often Visited Grandma. We Became Very Close—I Tried Not to Be a Burden. Then Grandma Fell Ill and Was Hospitalised. She Needed Good Care, So I Started Visiting Daily—Bringing Groceries, Cooking, Helping Round the House, and Making Sure She Took Her Medicines. I Did This For Six Months. Sometimes My Boyfriend Came Too, Fixing Things or Helping Out. After A While, Grandma Suggested We Move in With Her to Save Up For Our Own Place Instead of Wasting Money on Rent. Of Course, We Agreed—Grandma and I Got On So Well, and She Liked My Boyfriend. We Moved In. Six Months Later, I Fell Pregnant. Of Course, We Decided to Have the Baby. Grandma Was Over the Moon at the Prospect of a Great-Grandchild. We Had a Simple Wedding and Afterwards Took the Family to a Coffee Shop. Mum Didn’t Even Come. She Didn’t Even Send a Text. When My Daughter Was Only Two Months Old, Grandma Fell and Broke Her Leg. I Was Struggling, Looking After Both Grandma and a Baby. I Needed Mum’s Help Desperately, So I Rang and Asked. She Refused—Said She Wasn’t Well and Would Come Later, but She Never Did. Six Months On, Grandma Had a Stroke and Became Bedridden. The Care Was Overwhelming, and If Not For My Husband I Don’t Know What I’d Have Done. Then Grandma Improved—She Began to Speak, Walk, and Eat Slowly. She Lived for Another Two and a Half Years After the Stroke, Long Enough to Watch Her Great-Granddaughter Start Running Round. Grandma Died Peacefully in Her Sleep. My Husband and I Took It Very Hard. We Loved Her Dearly and Miss Her Every Day. Mum Only Showed Up for the Funeral. A Month Later, She Arrived, Insisting I Move Out and Hand Over the Flat. She Was Certain It Would All Be Hers. She Didn’t Know Grandma Had Rewritten Her Will Just After My Daughter Was Born, Leaving the Flat to Her Great-Grandchild—So Mum Got Nothing. Naturally, Mum Was Furious—Demanding I Give Her the Flat, Or She’d Take Me to Court. “Look How Sneaky You Are! You Tricked That Poor Old Woman, Took Her Flat, and Now You’re Living There Yourself! You Won’t Get Away With This! It Doesn’t Matter Who Looked After Grandma—That Flat Should Be Mine!” Mum Won’t Get That Flat—That Much I Know. I’ve Spoken to a Solicitor and a Legal Expert. So We’re Staying Put in the Flat Grandma Gave Us. And If Our Next Baby Is a Girl, She’ll Be Named After the Grandmother Who Meant So Much.

Why Should It Matter Who Cared for Grandma? By Law, That Flat Should Be Mine! – My Mum Argues with Me Over Grandma’s Flat My own mother is threatening to sue me. Why? Because my grandma’s flat didn’t go to her—or even to me—but instead was left to my daughter. Mum thinks that’s unbelievably unfair. She believes Grandma’s flat should have been hers, but Grandma chose otherwise. Why? Probably because my husband and I lived with Grandma and cared for her for the last five years. You could easily call my mum completely self-absorbed. Her wishes and desires always seemed to come before anyone else’s. She was married three times but only ever had two children: me and my younger sister. My sister and I are very close, but our relationship with Mum has always been… strained. I barely even remember my dad. He and Mum divorced when I was just two. Until I was six, I lived with Mum at Grandma’s. For some reason, I thought Grandma was very harsh—maybe because Mum was always crying. It wasn’t until I was older that I realised Grandma was a good person, just trying her best to help her daughter stand on her own two feet. Mum later remarried, and I moved in with her and my stepdad. That marriage gave me my sister, and lasted seven years before ending in divorce too. This time, instead of moving back in with Grandma, we stayed in my stepdad’s flat while he worked away. Three years on, Mum married again and we moved in with her new husband. He clearly didn’t love the idea of instant stepkids, but he never hurt us—he just ignored us. Mum ignored us too, completely focused on her new man, always suspicious, always causing drama. Once a month, Mum would pack her things and threaten to leave, but her husband always talked her down. My sister and I just got used to it. I ended up raising my sister because Mum couldn’t be bothered. Lucky for us, our grandmothers helped. Later, I moved to university accommodation, and my sister moved in with Grandma. Our dad helped as much as he could. Mum only rang on holidays. I got used to Mum being absent and unconcerned about us. My sister, though, never forgave her—especially not when Mum skipped her school-leaving celebration. As adults, my sister married and moved to another city. My boyfriend and I, meanwhile, lived together for years before considering marriage, renting a flat together. I visited Grandma often—we were very close, though I always tried not to overstep. Then Grandma fell ill and was hospitalised. I started visiting daily: bringing groceries, cooking, cleaning, and above all, making sure she took her medication. Sometimes my boyfriend came to help—he’d fix things around the house, tidy up. That’s when Grandma suggested we move in to save for our own place, instead of wasting money on rent. Of course, we said yes. Grandma liked my boyfriend a lot. Six months later, I got pregnant. We decided to keep the baby, got married, and had a small celebration with family in a café. Mum didn’t show up—didn’t even call to congratulate us. When my daughter was two months old, Grandma fell and broke her leg. It was agonising juggling a baby and an invalid. Desperate, I called my mum for help. She refused, saying she didn’t feel well, promising to visit soon. She never did. Six months after that, Grandma suffered a stroke. She was bedridden for ages. Caring for her nearly broke me—thank goodness for my husband. Eventually, she improved: she could talk, eat, and even walk a bit. Grandma got a few more years to enjoy her great-granddaughter’s first steps, before passing away peacefully in her sleep. Losing her was devastating for me and my husband—we loved her deeply and still miss her every day. Mum only came to the funeral. A month later, she turned up to kick me out, certain that the flat belonged to her. But she didn’t know Grandma had signed it over just after my daughter was born. So Mum got nothing. Of course, she wasn’t happy. She demanded I hand over the flat—or she’d sue. “See how sneaky you are!” she yelled. “You cheated that old woman out of her home just so you could move in! You won’t get away with this! It doesn’t matter who cared for Grandma—that flat is rightfully mine!” But she’s not getting the flat, and I know that for sure: I’ve spoken to a solicitor and a notary. We’ll stay in the home Grandma gave us. And if we have another daughter, we’ll definitely name her after Grandma.