Aunt Rita: The Unexpected Journey of a Cynical London Woman Who Finds Purpose and Belonging Through an Act of Kindness in Her Own Tower Block

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 7 minViews 3

Aunt Rita

Im 47 years old. Just an ordinary womanreally, I suppose youd call me a bit of a wallflower. Not pretty, certainly not blessed with a good figure. Alone, and unapologetically so. Ive never been married, nor do I wish to be; in my opinion, men are mostly the samecreatures only concerned with filling their bellies and lazing on the sofa. Not that anyones ever proposed or even asked me out. Not once.

My parents are elderly and live in Newcastle. Im an only child. No sisters, no brothers. I have a few cousins, but I dont speak to themby choice, really. For the past fifteen years, Ive lived and worked in London. I work for a company and every day is the same: work, home, repeat. I live in a typical block of flats in a quiet suburb.

Im bitter, cynical, and truly dont love anyone. Children especially set my teeth on edge. Over Christmas, as usual, I went to Newcastle to see my parentsmy one visit home a year. This year was the same. After I got back to London, I decided the fridge needed a scrub. On a whim, I cleared out all the old frozen foodbags of dumplings and burgers that Id bought on impulse but never fancied. Collected them into a box, intending to bin the lot downstairs.

I called the lift. Inside was a boy, about seven years old. Ive seen him before with his mother and a baby sibling. Cant help thinking, sometimes, what a handful. He stared at the box in my hands as we rode down. I went out towards the recycling bins; he followed. When I reached the bins he quietly asked, May I have that? I said, Its old, you know. Then thoughtwell, if he wants it, at least its not rotten. As I walked away, I glanced back for no reason, and saw him gently gathering the packages, holding them tight against his chest.

I asked, Wheres your mum? He said she was poorly, and his baby sister toothey couldnt get out of bed. I turned on my heel and went back to my flat. Put dinner on the hob. Sat down. Just sat, thinking. That boy stayed on my mind. Ive never been the nurturing sort and Ive never wanted to help anyone. But something moved mesuddenly I was packing up what food I had left: some ham, cheese, milk, biscuits, potatoes, onions; I even grabbed a chunk of meat from the freezer. Outside by the lift, I realised I didnt even know which floor they lived onjust that it was above mine. I started climbing, floor by floor, and by luck, two floors up, he opened the door.

At first he was confused but he let me in, silently. The flat was sparse, but clean to the point of shining.

His mum was curled up on the bed next to the baby. A basin and some flannels sat on the tablea sign she had a fever. The little girl was asleep, her breathing rattling faintly. I asked the boy if they had medicine. He showed me some; all expired, I could see. I went over and touched the mothers foreheadburning hot. She opened tired eyes and blinked at me. Then sat up in alarm: Wheres Charlie? I explained I was a neighbour visiting. I asked about their symptoms and rang for an NHS 111 urgent care team straight away. While we waited, I gave her tea and a sandwich. She ate quietly, with no protestshe mustve been starving. I even wondered how she still managed to breastfeed.

The paramedics arrived, checked them both, prescribed a string of medicines and even arranged for injections for the little one. I dashed out to the chemist, bought everything, then picked up milk and proper childrens food from the shop. On impulse, I even bought a bright yellow monkey toya ridiculous thing, but Ive never bought childrens presents before.

Her names Emily, 26. She grew up just outside Birmingham. Her mum and gran were both originally from London, but her mum married a man from the Midlands and they moved there. She worked in a factory and he was a techie there too. After Emily was born, her dad was electrocuted at work. Her mum, jobless and alone, struggled to cope and spiralled downhillher drinking overtook her in a matter of years. The neighbours somehow tracked down her gran in London who took Emily in. When she was 15, her gran told her everythingincluding her mum dying of tuberculosis. Her gran wasnt particularly warm: tight with money and always smoking.

At 16, Emily started working in the local shop, first restocking, then on the tills. Her gran died a year later, leaving Emily on her own. She started seeing a boy at 18; he promised marriage but ran off when she got pregnant. She saved money, knowing no one would help her. After her son was born, she left him home alone while she cleaned stairwells to afford nappies. Her daughter? The shop owner, when she came back to work after her son was a bit older, assaulted her one evening… then forced himself on her again and again, threatening to sack her otherwise. When she fell pregnant, he gave her two hundred quid and told her never to show her face again.

She told me all of this that same evening. Thanked me for everything; wanted to work off the debt by cleaning or cooking for me. I stopped her and left. I couldnt sleep all night. Lay there, wondering: what was I doing with myself? Why am I like thisnever caring for my parents, rarely even calling them. I dont love; I dont pity. I just save money, a tidy sum by now, with no one to spend it on. And yet, here’s this other familynothing to eat, too poor to get well.

In the morning, Charlie turned up and shyly handed me a plate of freshly made pancakes before dashing off. Standing in my doorway with that plate warming my hands, I felt something inside me melt. I wanted to laugh, cry, and eateverything at once.

Theres a little shopping centre near our block, and in it a tiny childrens clothes shop. The owner, after struggling to understand what sizes I needed, even offered to come with me to Emilys flat! Im not sure if she just wanted a big sale or was touched by the story. An hour later, wed stacked four huge bags with clothes for the little girl and boy, plus blankets, pillows, bedding. I bought groceries as well, even vitamins. Something about it filled me with a sense of purpose.

Its been ten days now. They call me Aunt Rita. Emily is quite the handywomanmy flat looks cosier already. I started ringing my parents again. I send GOODWILL texts for sick childrens charities. I dont know how I used to live before. Now, each evening, I cant wait to finish work and get home. I know someones waiting for me. Andthis spring, were off to Newcastle. All of us, together. The train tickets are already booked.

I Looked After My Grandchildren for Free – Then My Daughter Gave Me a List of Criticisms About My Parenting – “Oh Mum, not again! You’ve given them those supermarket gingerbread biscuits! We agreed – only gluten-free cookies from the bakery on Queen’s Road,” Marina’s voice rang with outrage, as if I’d committed a major crime rather than serving up a snack for two five-year-olds. “They’re full of sugar and trans fats! Do you want them breaking out in rashes again? Or bouncing off the walls before bed?” Jean sighed heavily, brushing crumbs from the table into her palm. She wanted to say that the kids had outright refused the overpriced gluten-free biscuits from the local artisan bakery, calling them “cardboard,” and had wolfed down regular gingerbread as if it was nectar from the gods. But she kept silent. Lately, she’d learned it was easier not to stoke already simmering tensions. Her only daughter, Marina, stood in the kitchen in a sharp business suit, anxiously checking the time on her phone. She was late for an important meeting, but the nutrition lecture clearly took precedence over London’s morning traffic. “Marina, they were starving after the park,” Jean tried, rinsing mugs under the tap. “They barely touched their soup, just picked at their main. They needed a bit of energy.” “Energy, Mum, comes from complex carbs, not sugar!” her daughter snapped, reaching for her handbag. “Alright, I have to go. Tim will be back by 8. Please make sure they finish their speech therapy homework – and no screen time! I’ll be checking the browser history.” The door shut behind her, leaving a waft of expensive perfume and heavy tension in the air. Jean collapsed into a chair, feeling her lower back ache. Sixty-two years old, and two years ago she’d given up her job as chief accountant at a small business to help out with her grandsons, Ben and Charlie, at her daughter’s insistence. “Why bother working, Mum?” Tim, her son-in-law, had persuaded her. “We’ve got this mortgage, we’re both building our careers. We need reliable childcare. Can’t trust a stranger with the boys – and good nannies cost a fortune nowadays. This way, you’re with your grandkids and we can focus on work.” At the time, it sounded fair – even appealing. Jean adored her grandsons, and to be honest, her job had become tiring. She imagined blissful afternoons in the park, storybooks at bedtime, crafts at the kitchen table. The reality, of course, was quite different. Now, her working day began at 7 a.m. She crossed half the city from her little flat to Marina and Tim’s new build in Chiswick, arriving before the boys woke up. Her daughter and son-in-law left early, returned late; all domestic chores, ferrying kids to their clubs and clinics, all fell on Grandma. Ben was a boisterous five-year-old, Charlie a headstrong three-year-old deep in the “I’ll do it!” phase. That evening, as always, Jean built Lego castles with the boys, coached Ben on his speech therapy (“s” versus “sh” woes), and coaxed them through dinner – broccoli lost once again to sneaky sausages she’d boiled up against orders. After bathtime and bedtime stories, she was barely upright when Tim came home, barely grunting a “thanks” as he grabbed a snack from the fridge. On the bus home, city lights flickering by, Jean realised even “thank you” had become automatic, like she was some kind of washing machine completing a cycle, not a family member. No one asked if she was okay, whether her blood pressure – which had been up-and-down all week with the weather – was any better. Things reached a head that weekend. Normally, Jean stayed home, catching up on sleep or her own errands – but Friday night, Marina rang. “Mum, we need a family meeting on Sunday. Come for lunch – we need to talk seriously,” her daughter said firmly. Jean’s stomach dropped. Nothing good ever followed that tone. That Sunday, she arrived, homemade cheese and onion quiche in hand – Tim’s favourite – but the atmosphere was all wrong: formal, tense, the kids banished to watch Disney Plus while the adults sat at the table with laptops and notepads. “We’ve reviewed the past six months,” said Marina, avoiding eye contact. “We need to systematise the boys’ upbringing. There are things we’re quite unhappy about.” “We’ve drawn up a list,” Tim chimed in, spinning his laptop so she could see their Excel spreadsheet with bullet points and colour-coded highlights. “First: Diet,” Marina began, pen-tapping her notepad. “You systematically break their meal plan. Gingerbread, sausages, homemade bakes – it’s a carb overload! We need you to stick exactly to the menu on the fridge. No exceptions.” “They won’t eat turkey burgers, Marina – they’re children!” Jean tried to protest. “Second: Routine,” Tim interrupted. “Last week Charlie went to bed at 9.30, not 9. That’s unacceptable.” Jean recalled that night: Charlie had tummy ache, she’d soothed him for half an hour, singing lullabies until he dozed off. “Third: Education,” Marina continued. “Ben still confuses colours in English. Are you using the flashcards I bought? He needs structured cognitive exercises, not just cars and blocks.” “Marina, he’s only five! Can’t he just be a little boy? We read, we count conkers in the park…” “Conkers – that’s outdated,” her daughter sniffed. “And discipline – you let them walk all over you. You spoil them. You need to be firmer. No treats, no cuddles for tantrums, timeouts if necessary. You’re too soft. It’s unprofessional.” The word “unprofessional” stung hardest. “And finally,” Tim concluded, “we’ve drawn up a schedule and KPIs… you know, performance indicators. We’ll review progress weekly. If their English doesn’t improve, we’ll need to hire a private tutor – that’s an extra expense we hoped to avoid.” Jean stared at her quiche cooling on the side, at her family’s severe faces, and realized she was just an unpaid contractor failing her targets. “So, that’s a list of grievances?” she asked quietly. “Mum, don’t put it like that – just growth opportunities,” Marina grimaced. “We want an organised approach.” Jean rose. Years of senior accounting had taught her to keep her composure, even during ugly audits. “You want a professional teacher, dietitian, chef, cleaner – with fluent English, Montessori training, and military-style discipline. Well, let’s talk contracts. A nanny like that in London is £15 an hour, minimum – twelve hours a day, five days a week. That’s £900 a week, nearly £4,000 a month. Not counting overtime, cooking, and cleaning for the whole family.” Tim laughed nervously. “Jean, you’re their grandma! Not a contractor!” “A Granny,” she replied icily, “is someone who spoils her grandkids at weekends, brings treats, and tells stories – on her own terms. Someone forced to abide a list of demands and KPIs is a paid worker. And paid work deserves wages. We abolished slavery long ago.” “Mum, how can you talk about money? We’re family!” Marina gasped. “I’ve done this for love, but love isn’t valued here. You’ve made it transactional. So – I’m resigning. Find yourselves a proper professional nanny for your spreadsheet.” The shock on their faces was plain. That week, Jean ignored their calls, caught up on sleep, met old friends for lunch, bought herself a new dress for the first time in years, and finally read the book she’d had on her bedside for ages. Eventually, Marina caved. They’d found a new nanny – a stern woman who charged a fortune, ate organic-only, watched the kids like a boot-camp sergeant. The boys, missing Grandma’s warmth, wilted under strict rules. Marina looked exhausted, Tim exasperated. When Jean visited, both daughter and son-in-law finally admitted: “We were idiots. Please come back. No more lists. Just love them. Spoil them with gingerbread. Let them watch Winnie the Pooh. We’ll pay! More than the nanny!” Jean shook her head. “No money. I’m not hired help. I’ll do three days a week, 9 to 6. No evenings, no weekends. I raise them my way, no interference. One cross look or complaint – I’m gone. I help, but I will not be your housekeeper.” They agreed – and fired the nanny. Sometimes, the only way for people to appreciate you is to walk away and let them see the difference. Love, with healthy boundaries, makes a family stronger. Leave the spreadsheets at the office – every granny has her own methods, tried and true, far richer than any KPI.

“All Right Then, Dear Mum! You Have Your Own Home—That’s Where You Belong. Don’t Come Over Unless We Invite You.” My mother lives in a quaint English village, nestled beside a gentle river. A stretch of woodland starts just behind her garden, and in season, we gather bountiful berries and wild mushrooms. Since childhood, I’d run through familiar meadows with a basket, relishing nature’s gifts. I married my schoolmate, whose parents live nearby, just across the lane. Their garden doesn’t have access to the river or the woods, so when we visit from the city, we always stay with my mum. Lately, mum’s changed—perhaps it’s her age, or perhaps jealousy over my husband—leading to holiday visits that spiral into arguments. Peaceful resolutions became rare. Once, when we stayed with my in-laws, mum picked a fight with her own beau over trivial matters. My mother-in-law was so upset, she shouted so loudly the whole lane could hear their long-standing grievances. A month later, once tempers cooled, my husband and I hatched a plan—to build our own home, so no one’s feelings would be hurt and we’d have a place to truly belong. Sorting out the land took ages, but we managed. My in-laws eagerly pitched in; my father-in-law was a constant presence on our building site. But mum was nothing but trouble—coming over, offering unsolicited advice, insulting our progress, making peace impossible. Building the house became a nightmare. A year passed; the house was finished, but relief was short-lived. Mum wouldn’t stop dropping by, accusing us of selfishness and threatening to withdraw her help—forgetting how my husband had always been there to mow her lawn or fix her roof. One day, mum asked: “Why do you even come here anymore? Stay in your city home—when you visit, you’re just flaunting what you have.” That broke my husband’s patience. He calmly approached his mother-in-law, but there was something in his calm that made her edge toward the door. “What are you doing, son-in-law…?” she asked. “Nothing, dear mum! You’ve got your house—so live there. Don’t come here unless we invite you. Let us have a weekend to ourselves now and then. If you need help, call us; if there’s a fire, we’ll come running!” “What do you mean, what fire?” At those words, mum made a hasty exit. I stifled laughter watching her hurry out the gate. My husband, after calming down, raised his hands: “Well, maybe I did go a bit far with the fire comment.” “No, you’re quite right.” We laughed together, recalling the look on mum’s face. Since then, peace has reigned in our new home. Mum no longer pops by, graciously accepts my husband’s help, but only speaks in simple yes or no answers. I suspect she’s still thinking about that imaginary fire.