Dr. Eleanor Vance, a paediatric infectious disease specialist in Chicago, has seen the worst-case scenario. “We had a case where a grandmother—the family’s designated ‘aunty’—was unknowingly HIV-positive. She had been feeding her granddaughter for three months. It was devastating. The practice bypasses every safety protocol we have for donor milk.”
“I feel tired,” she laughs. “And then I feel useful. In this country, nobody needs an aunty. The doctor has a machine. The internet has an answer. The grocery store has a yellow tin. But then the baby screams at 3 a.m., and suddenly—suddenly—everyone remembers my phone number.” aunty milk
And yet, Dr. Vance acknowledges the cultural failure. “We tell these women, ‘Don’t do that.’ But we don’t give them an alternative. A single bottle of pasteurised donor milk from a milk bank can cost $20. That’s a week’s groceries for some families. So they go back to the aunty.” A quiet innovation is emerging. In cities with large diaspora populations, informal “milk circles” have started to formalise—just barely. She had been feeding her granddaughter for three months
Sharma admits her first reaction was jealousy. “I thought, ‘That’s my baby. That’s my milk.’ But my milk wasn’t there. Hers was. And it wasn't about possession. It was about survival.” Of course, Aunty Milk is not without peril. Modern medicine cringes at the practice. There are no STD screenings for Aunty Geeta. No one checks if Aunty Fatima is on antidepressants or drinks a bottle of chai-spiked rum every evening. “And then I feel useful
And in that quiet, complicated, leaky-breasted space between shame and survival, the aunty holds the line—one warm ceramic mug at a time. If you or someone you know is considering informal milk sharing, speak to a healthcare provider about screening and risk reduction. And if you have an Aunty? Thank her. Preferably with baklava.
When I ask Razia Mir what she feels when she hands a sleeping, milk-drunk baby back to its mother, she doesn’t get sentimental.