I was orphaned at the age of six. There were already two of us girls, and our mother was having the third baby. I remember everything — my mother’s cries, the neighbors gathering and weeping, then suddenly, my mother’s voice fell silent…
Why didn’t they call for doctors or take her to the hospital? I can’t understand it to this day. Was it too far to the village? Were the roads impassable? There must have been some reason, but I still don’t know. My mother died in childbirth, leaving the two of us and our newborn sister, Lily.
After mom died, my father was lost. We had no relatives nearby to help us here in the East; everyone was back in the West. His friends advised him to marry quickly. It wasn’t even a week after mom’s funeral when father became a suitor.
People suggested he approach a schoolteacher they said was a kind woman. He did just that, and she accepted his proposal. Perhaps she was fond of him — he was young and handsome, tall and slender with striking dark eyes. It was hard not to notice him.
Whatever the case, father brought the bride-to-be home that evening. “I’ve brought you a new mom!” he announced.
I felt such bitterness; a child’s heart sensing that something was off. Everything still smelled like Mom. We were still wearing dresses she had sewn and washed, and already he had found us a new mother. Now, years later, I understand him, but back then, I hated him and his bride. Whatever stories she concocted about us, I do not know, but she entered the house arm in arm with father.
Both of them had a bit too much to drink, and she said to us, “Call me ‘mom,’ and I’ll stay.”
I said to my younger sister, “She’s not our mom. Our mom passed away. Don’t call her that!”
My little 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 to us!”
“So chatty!” the teacher said. “In that case, I won’t stay.”
The teacher went out the door, and father was about to follow her. But then he hesitated on the doorstep. He stood there for a moment, head bowed, then turned to us, embraced us, and began to sob. We joined him in tears. Even little Lily whimpered in her crib. We were mourning our mother, while father was grieving his wife. But our tears carried more grief than his. The tears of orphans are the same the world over, and the longing for one’s mother speaks the same language everywhere. That was the first and last time I ever saw my father cry.
Father stayed with us for another two weeks. He worked in the logging industry, and his team often went deep into the woods. What else could he do? There were no other jobs in the village. He arranged for a neighbor to look after us, left her money for food, and took Lily to another neighbor before heading back to the woods.
We were left alone. The neighbor would come by to cook and heat the stove, then leave for her own affairs. We spent whole days by ourselves: cold, hungry, and scared.
The village started to think of ways to help us. We needed a woman to save our family; not just any woman, but one who could take in someone else’s children as her own. Where would we find such a person? In discussions, they learned about a young woman related to a villager. Her husband had left her because she couldn’t have children, or maybe she did have a child who died, and she couldn’t have more. No one knew for sure. Still, they found her address, wrote a letter, and sent for Jane through this aunt, Martha.
Father was still in the woods when Jane came to us early one morning. She entered the house so quietly that we didn’t even hear her. I woke up to the sound of gentle footsteps in the house, someone clattering dishes in the kitchen, and the smell of pancakes!
My sister and I peeked through a crack in the door. Jane quietly went about her tasks: washing dishes, cleaning the floors. Finally, she realized by the sounds that we were awake.
“Well, come on, fair-haired girls, let’s eat!” She called us fair-haired, which seemed funny to us. True, we were both blonde and blue-eyed, just like our mom.
Gathering courage, we came out of the room. “Sit at the table!” she encouraged. We didn’t need to be asked twice. We ate pancakes and began to trust this woman.
“You can call me Aunt Jane,” she told us.
Then Aunt Jane bathed my sister, Annie, and me, did all our laundry, and left. We waited the next day, and she came again. The house transformed under her care. It became clean and tidy again, just like when mom was around. Three weeks passed, and father was still in the woods. Aunt Jane took good care of us, probably worried and not letting us get too attached. Especially Annie, who was only three. I was more cautious. Aunt Jane seemed strict, not very smiling. Our mom had been cheerful, singing songs and dancing. She called father “Johnny.”
“What if your father returns from the woods and doesn’t accept me?” she asked.
I awkwardly began to praise father, nearly ruining everything! I said, “He’s good! So quiet! He drinks and falls straight to sleep!”
Aunt Jane was immediately concerned. “Does he drink often?”
“Often!” Annie answered, and I nudged her under the table, saying, “No, only on holidays.”
Aunt Jane left that evening at ease, and father returned from the woods that night. He entered the house, looked around, and exclaimed, “I thought you were suffering, but here you are living like princesses.”
We told him everything as best we could. Father sat, pondering, and then said, “Well, I should go see this new housekeeper. What’s she like?”
“Beautiful,” Annie said quickly. “She makes pancakes and tells stories.”
Looking back, I always smile at this memory. By no standard could Jane be called beautiful. She was skinny, small, rather plain. But what do children know about beauty? Or perhaps they are the only ones who truly understand what makes a person beautiful.
Father laughed, dressed, and went to find Jane at Aunt Martha’s nearby. The next day, father brought Jane home himself. He rose early, fetched her, and once again, she entered quietly, as if she were afraid of something.
I said to Annie, “Let’s call her ‘mom’; she’s nice!”
And in unison, we shouted, “Mom, mom’s here!”
Father and Jane went to fetch Lily. For her, Jane became a true mother, cherishing her. Lily didn’t remember our mother. Annie forgot, and I was the only one who remembered her my whole life, along with father. I once overheard him saying quietly, looking at a photo of mother, “Why did you leave so soon? You took all my happiness with you.”
I didn’t live with my father and stepmother for long. From fourth grade, I was in boarding schools, as our village lacked a large school. After the seventh grade, I went to college. I always wanted to leave home early, but why? Jane never mistreated me in any way. She cared for me like her own, yet I remained distant. Was I ungrateful?
I probably chose midwifery not by chance. I can’t turn back time to save my mother, but I can save another…
