28December2026 Diary
Im fortyseven now, an ordinary woman who could easily be described as a wallflower. Im not strikingly pretty, I have no modellike figure, and Ive never been married Ive never wanted to. In my mind most men are nothing more than creatures whose chief ambition is to stuff themselves and lounge on the sofa. No one has ever asked me out, nor have I ever asked anyone in.
My parents are elderly and live in Carlisle, up in the north. Im an only child no sisters, no brothers. I have distant cousins, but I keep my distance; I simply dont feel the need to maintain those ties. Ive been living and working in London for the past fifteen years, employed by a midsize corporation where every day blurs into the next: work, home, work, home. I rent a modest flat in a residential block in the outskirts of the city.
I am often bitter, cynical, and I struggle to love anyone, even children. Each year I make the pilgrimage back to Carlisle for NewYear, just to see my parents. This year, as usual, I arrived, set about cleaning the old fridge and deciding to throw away the stale frozen stock dumplings, cutlets, the lot. I packed everything into a cardboard box and headed for the communal waste bin.
When I called the lift, a boy of about seven stepped in. Id seen him a few times with his mother, and once even his baby sibling in a pram. He stared at the box with an odd mixture of curiosity and hunger. As the doors opened and I waded toward the bin, he shyly asked, Can I have some? I told him it was all old food, but then thought, Well, it isnt mouldy, so why not? I started to walk away when he carefully gathered the small packets, cradling them close to his chest.
Wheres your mum? I asked.
Shes ill, and my sisters ill too, he whispered. She cant even get up.
I turned back toward the lift, left the box by the bins and went home, setting a simple dinner on the hob. As I sat down, the boys image lingered in my mind. Id never been the charitable sort, never felt a tug at my heart. Yet something made me move. I hurried to the kitchen, grabbed whatever was still edible a few slices of ham, some cheese, milk, biscuits, a potato, an onion, even a chunk of meat from the freezer.
I realised I didnt even know which floor they lived on. I only knew it was above me. I started climbing, floor by floor, hoping for luck. Two floors up, the lift doors opened to reveal the same boy. He seemed puzzled at first, then, without a word, stepped aside and let me in.
The flat was sparsely furnished but impeccably clean. A young woman lay curled on the bed, a baby beside her. A basin of water and a rag were on the table clearly feverish, the child shivering.
Do you have any tablets? I asked the boy.
He rummaged through a drawer and handed me a pack of terribly expired pills.
I approached the woman, touched her feverburned forehead. She opened her eyes, looking at me with bewildered confusion. Then she sat up abruptly. Wheres Anton? she demanded. I told her I was just the neighbour. She asked about the symptoms of both herself and the infant, and I called an ambulance. While they were on their way, I offered her a cup of tea with a slice of ham. She ate greedily, clearly famished, and even tried to breastfeed the baby.
The paramedics arrived, examined the pair, and prescribed a slew of medicines and injections for the baby. I rushed to the pharmacy, bought everything, then stopped by a supermarket for milk and a range of baby foods. On a whim I also bought a bright, lemoncoloured plush monkey Id never bought a childs present before.
The woman introduced herself as Elsie, twentysix, originally from Slough. Her mother and grandmother were Londoners; her mother had married a man from Slough and they moved there, where she worked in a local factory while her husband was a technician. When Elsie was born, her father was electrocuted on the job. Her mother was left alone with a newborn, jobless and penniless. Friends and acquaintances tried to help, but the situation quickly spiralled. Within three years she was drinking heavily. Neighbours somehow tracked down her grandmother in London, who took Elsie in.
When Elsie turned fifteen, her grandmother confided that her own mother had died of tuberculosis. The grandmother was tightfisted, a chainsmoker, and said very little.
At sixteen Elsie started work at the corner shop first as a packer, then as a cashier. A year later her grandmother passed away, leaving Elsie on her own. At eighteen she dated a lad who promised marriage, but after she became pregnant he vanished. She kept working, scrimping and saving, knowing there was no one to rely on. When the baby arrived, by the third month she was left alone in the flat, cleaning the stairwells, while the little girl slept.
The shop owner, the same man she had returned to after the birth, took advantage of her. After a night of assault he began to threaten and abuse her constantly, telling her he would fire her if she spoke up. When he discovered she was pregnant again, he handed her ten pounds and warned her never to return.
That night Elsie poured her whole story out to me. She thanked me profusely, saying she would repay me by cleaning or cooking. I brushed off her gratitude and left. I didnt sleep at all, turning the events over in my mind. Why do I exist? Why am I the way I am? I dont call my own parents, I love no one, I feel no remorse. Ive hoarded a decent sum of money, yet have no one to spend it on. And then, heres this strangers life, a child who cant eat, a mother who cant get treatment.
Morning came, and Anton returned, thumping a plate of fresh pancakes onto my doorstep before dashing off. I stood on the threshold, the warmth of the pancakes seeping into me, as if I were melting after a long winter. In that instant I wanted to cry, laugh, and devour everything all at once.
Just a short walk from our block is a small shopping arcade. The lady who runs the tiny childrens boutique, after a brief chat about my size, insisted on accompanying me to the donation centre. Im not sure if she was moved by my plight or saw an opportunity to make a sale, but within an hour we had four massive bags of clothing for boys and girls, a duvet, pillows, sheets, and even a new set of vitamins. I bought enough food to fill my pantry. I felt, for the first time in years, genuinely useful.
Its been ten days now. They call me Aunt Rita, and Elsie has become a crafty, resourceful woman. My flat feels cozier, my heart a little lighter. Ive started phoning my parents again and send text messages with a single wordKindnessto sick children I hear about. I cant fathom how I lived before. Every evening after work I sprint home, knowing someone is waiting for me.
Next spring well all travel together to Carlisle. Weve already bought train tickets.
Rita (adapted from G.Kokoshvili)The morning of the departure the sky was a soft, bruised pink, and the platform hummed with the low chatter of commuters. I stood at the edge of the platform, my bag slung over one shoulder, the lemoncoloured plush monkey tucked safely beneath my coat. Elsie arrived with the baby cradled against her chest, her eyes bright despite the tired lines that still lingered under them. The boyAntons sonran ahead, his laughter echoing off the stone arches as he chased a wayward sparrow that dared to hover near the tracks.
When the train hissed into view, a quiet thrill fluttered in my chest, a feeling I hadnt known since I was a child watching the world through a windowpane. The carriage doors opened, and we slipped inside, finding seats by the wide window that framed the countryside in a moving tapestry of green fields and distant hills. As the train pulled away from the city, the clatter of the underground gave way to the gentle rhythm of wheels on rail, and I felt the weight of the years Id spent alone begin to lift.
Elsie turned to me, her hands still trembling slightly from the nights exhaustion, and whispered, Thank you, Rita. Not just for the food or the blankets for seeing us. I smiled, and for the first time in a long while I didnt have to force the words. Were all keeping each other warm now, I replied, and the baby in her arms cooed, a soft sound that seemed to stitch the empty spaces inside me together.
The train rode on, and I thought of my parents in Carlisle, of the house that had always felt too quiet, of the years I had built walls around my own heart. The scenery outside changed, but inside the carriage a new landscape was formingone of shared meals, of whispered stories, of moments that mattered. I watched the boy stare out the window, his imagination turning the passing fields into dragons and treasure islands. I realized that kindness, once sparked, had become a fire that could not be contained.
When the train finally screeched into Carlisle station, the winter air was already giving way to the first hints of thaw. My parents stood on the platform, their faces lit with surprise and relief. They embraced me with a tenderness I had never allowed myself to receive, and in that hug I felt the final piece of my old self fall away.
We walked together to the house, the baby sleeping peacefully in Elsies arms, the boys hand gripping mine tightly. Inside, the kitchen filled with the scent of fresh bread that my mother was baking, and the sound of laughter that was no longer forced but genuine. I set the monkey on the mantelpiece, a small token of the day everything changed, and I knew that the future would hold more trips, more meals, more moments where I could give and receive.
As the sun slipped behind the Cumbrian hills, I stood at the doorway, looking out over the garden where my parents’ roses were beginning to bloom again. I whispered to the wind, Kindness is a train that never stops, and felt the truth settle deep within me. No longer a wallflower, I was a seed planted in fertile soilready to grow, to reach, and to love.
