I became an orphan when I was six years old. My mother had two daughters and was expecting her third child. I remember everything vividly: my mother’s cries, the neighbors gathering and weeping, the sudden silence as her voice faded away…
Why didn’t anyone call a doctor or take her to the hospital? I still can’t comprehend it. Was the town too far away? Were the roads blocked? There must have been some reason, but I’ll never know. My mother died during childbirth, leaving behind me, my sister, and the newborn, little Olivia.
After Mom passed away, my father was at a loss. We had no relatives nearby—everyone was back in the West—and he had no one to help him cope with us. The neighbors advised him to remarry quickly. Not even a week had passed since the funeral before Dad became a suitor.
People suggested he propose to a local schoolteacher, saying she was a kind woman. So, Dad went and asked for her hand, and she agreed. I guess Dad made a good impression on her. He was young and handsome, with tall stature, a slender build, and striking dark eyes. Quite a sight to behold.
Regardless, that evening Dad came home with his new bride-to-be.
“I’ve brought you a new mom!” he announced.
I felt a pang of bitterness. Even as a child, I sensed something was amiss. The house still smelled like Mom. We wore dresses sewn and laundered by her hands, yet he had already found us a replacement. It’s understandable now, but back then, I resented him and his fiancée. I’m not sure what she imagined about us, but she entered the house arm-in-arm with Dad.
They were both a bit tipsy, and she said to us:
“Call me Mom, and I’ll stay.”
I whispered to my younger sister:
“She’s not our mom. Our mom died. Don’t call her that!”
My sister began to cry, and as the older one, I stepped forward.
“No, we won’t! You’re not our mom. You’re a stranger!”
“Quite the talkative one, aren’t you? Well, in that case, I won’t stay.”
The teacher left, and Dad almost followed her out the door, but then he froze, standing there unmoving before turning back to us. He gathered us close, and we all began to cry together. Even little Olivia in her crib started to whimper. We were mourning our mother while Dad grieved his beloved wife, yet there was more sorrow in our tears than his. The tears of orphans are the same everywhere, and the longing for a mother is universal. That was the first and only time I saw my father cry.
Dad stayed with us for another two weeks. He worked at the lumber yard, and his crew would go deep into the forest. What could he do? There was no other work in the village. He arranged with a neighbor, left her some money for our food, and brought Olivia to another neighbor before heading off again.
We were left alone. The neighbor would come by, cook, warm up the place, and then leave. She had her own affairs. We stayed home all day: cold, hungry, and scared.
The village began thinking of how to help us. We needed a woman to save the family, but not just any woman—a special one who could accept another’s children as her own. Where could we find her?
Through conversations, it was discovered that a distant relative of one of the villagers knew a young woman named Martha who had been left by her husband because she was childless. Or maybe she’d had a child who passed away, and she couldn’t have more—no one knew for sure. Somehow, they got her address and wrote her a letter, inviting her to come and try to help us.
Dad was still in the forest when Martha arrived at our home early one morning. She entered so quietly that we didn’t hear her at first. I woke up to the sound of footsteps. Someone was bustling around, just like our mom, clattering dishes in the kitchen, and the house smelled wonderful! Pancakes!
My sister and I peered through a crack to watch. Martha was quietly working: washing dishes, scrubbing floors. Eventually, she realized we were awake by the sound of our movements.
“Come on now, sweethearts, let’s eat!” she called out to us.
It was strange how she called us sweethearts. We truly were fair-haired and blue-eyed, just like our mother.
Gathering our courage, we stepped out of the room.
“Come, sit at the table!”
We didn’t need to be asked twice. We feasted on pancakes and started to trust this woman.
“Call me Aunt Martha,” she said.
Later, Aunt Martha bathed Vicky and me, washed all our clothes, and then left. The next day, we waited, and sure enough, she arrived! The house transformed under her care, sparkling clean and tidy like when Mom was around. It was about three weeks later, and Dad was still in the forest. Aunt Martha took such good care of us, yet she seemed hesitant about forming a bond with us. Especially little Vicky, who was only three years old then, was drawn to her. I was more cautious. Aunt Martha was strict and serious, unlike our cheerful mom who loved to sing and dance and called Dad “Johnny.”
“What if your dad doesn’t accept me when he returns from the forest? What’s he like?”
Awkwardly, I began praising Dad, almost ruining everything:
“He’s good! Very calm! When he drinks, he goes right to sleep!”
Aunt Martha instantly grew concerned.
“Does he drink often?”
“Often!” replied my younger sister, while I kicked her under the table and said:
“No, only on special occasions.”
Martha left that evening feeling reassured, and Dad returned from the forest later that night. Entering the house, he looked around, surprised:
“I thought you’d all be struggling, but you’re living like princesses.”
We explained everything as best we could. Dad sat, deep in thought, then said:
“Well, I guess I should go meet this new caretaker. What’s she like?”
“Gorgeous,” Vicky chimed in excitedly, “and she makes pancakes and tells stories.”
Looking back, I always smile. Calling Martha a beauty was a stretch; she was petite, thin, and plain-looking. Yet what do children understand? Or perhaps they genuinely know what true beauty is?
Dad chuckled, got dressed, and went over to our neighbor, Aunt Martha, who lived nearby.
The next day, Dad brought Martha home himself. He rose early, fetched her, and once again, she entered our home so timidly, as if afraid.
I told Vicky:
“Let’s call her Mom; she’s a good one!”
And, in unison, we shouted:
“Mom, Mom has come!”
Dad and Martha went together to get Olivia. Martha truly became a real mother to her, hovering over her with care. Olivia didn’t remember our mom. Vicky seemed to forget, while only Dad and I still held her memory. I once overhead Dad mutter softly to Mom’s photo:
“Why did you leave so soon? You’ve taken all my happiness with you.”
I didn’t live long with Dad and stepmom. From fourth grade, I was in and out of boarding schools since our village lacked a high-level school. After seventh grade, I went to vocational school. Always wanting to leave home sooner, but why? Zinaida never said a harsh word or did anything hurtful; she cared for me as her own. Might I be ungrateful?
Choosing to become a midwife was likely not a coincidence. I might not alter the past to save my mother, but I promise to save another woman…
