I became an orphan at six. My mother already had two daughters, and she was delivering a third. I remember it all—the way my mother screamed, the way the neighbors gathered, cried, and the way my mother’s voice faded away…
Why didn’t they call the doctors or take her to the hospital? I still can’t understand it. Why? Was the town too far away? Were the roads impassable? I never knew the reason. My mother died in childbirth, leaving us two girls and a tiny newborn, Olive.
After Mom passed, Dad was lost. We had no relatives nearby; they were all in the West Country. No one was there to help him manage us. Neighbors urged him to remarry right away. Within a week of mom’s funeral, there he was—a groom already.
People suggested he propose to a local teacher, saying she was a kind woman. So Dad did. He proposed and got accepted. Maybe she was fond of him? He was young and handsome, that’s for sure. Tall and slender, with dark, piercing eyes. Mesmerizing, really.
Anyway, Dad brought his bride home one evening.
“I’ve brought you a new mom!”
I was filled with resentment, a bitterness that I couldn’t rationalize, but my child’s heart sensed something was wrong. The house still smelled of Mom. We still wore dresses sewn and washed by her hands, and he’d already found us a new mother. Now, years later, I understand him, but back then, I hated him and the bride he brought. I don’t know what stories she concocted about us, but she came in arm-in-arm with Dad.
Both were slightly tipsy, and she said to us:
“If you call me Mom, I’ll stay.”
I turned to my younger sister and said:
“She’s not our mom. Our mom died. Don’t call her that!”
My sister started crying, and as the oldest, I stepped forward.
“No, we won’t! You’re not our mom. You’re a stranger!”
“You sure are chatty! Well, then I won’t stay with you.”
The teacher left, and Dad started to follow, but paused at the doorway, stood still for a while, then came back to us. He hugged us, broke into tears, and we cried with him. Even little Olive in her crib whimpered. We were mourning our mom, his beloved, but our tears carried a sadness deeper than his. Orphan’s tears are the same no matter where you are in the world, and the longing for your mother’s touch is a universal language. It was the first and last time I saw my father cry.
Dad stayed with us for another two weeks before heading to the forests for work. He worked in the lumber yard, and the crew was setting off into the woods. What else could he do? There were no other jobs in the village. He made arrangements with a neighbor, left money for our food, placed Olive with another neighbor, and vanished into the forest.
And so, we were left alone. The neighbor would stop by to cook, light the fire, and then leave, caught up in her own matters. We spent our days in the cold, hungry and frightened. The village began to think about how to help us. We needed a woman who could love us as her own. But where could we find such a person?
In conversations, people learned there was a young woman related to one of our villagers who had been abandoned by her husband because she couldn’t have children. Or perhaps she had a child who died, and was unable to have more. Nobody really knew. Nevertheless, they found out her address, wrote a letter, and through our Aunt Martha, sent for Zinnia.
Dad was still working in the forest when Zinnia arrived early one morning. She entered the house so quietly that we didn’t even hear her. I woke up to the sound of footsteps in the house. Someone was moving around, just like Mom, clattering dishes in the kitchen, and oh, the smell! Pancakes were being made!
My sister and I peeked through a crack in the door. Zinnia quietly went about her tasks: washing dishes, scrubbing floors. Finally, through the sounds, she realized we were awake.
“Well, come along, you little fair-haired loves, let’s eat!”
It was unusual for her to call us “fair-haired loves.” My sister and I were indeed blonde and blue-eyed—like Mom.
We gathered the courage to leave our room.
“Sit at the table!”
She didn’t need to ask us twice. We filled up on pancakes and started to trust this woman.
“Call me Aunt Zinnia,” she said. “That’s what you can call me.”
Later, Aunt Zinnia bathed us and washed our clothes before leaving. The next day, we waited for her, and she came! The house transformed under her care. It was clean and tidy, just like when Mom was around. Three weeks passed, and Dad was still in the forest. Aunt Zinnia cared for us wonderfully, yet perhaps she held back a bit, not wanting us to become too attached. Vera, my sister, was especially drawn to her. Understandably—she was only three then. I, on the other hand, was cautious. Aunt Zinnia had a strict and unsmiling demeanor. Our mom had been cheerful; she sang and danced, calling Dad “Johnny.”
“When your father comes back from the forest, he might not want me around. What’s he like?”
I awkwardly praised Dad, nearly ruining everything!
“He’s great! So calm! He drinks and just goes to sleep!”
Aunt Zinnia was alarmed.
“Does he drink often?”
“Often!” the younger one chimed in, and I nudged her under the table, saying:
“No, only on holidays.”
Aunt Zinnia left that evening reassured, and Dad returned from the forest that night. Entering the house, he looked around, surprised:
“I thought you’d be having a tough time, and here you are living like princesses.”
We told him everything as best as we could. Dad sat deep in thought and finally said:
“Well, I’d better go and see this new caretaker. What’s she like?”
“A beauty,” Vera quickly replied. “And she makes pancakes and tells us stories.”
Now, when I think back, I always smile. By no stretch could Zinnia be called a beauty. She was thin, small, somewhat plain-looking—not a classic beauty, but what do children know of beauty? Or maybe they’re the ones who truly understand what makes a person beautiful?
Dad laughed, got dressed, and went to Aunt Martha’s, who lived nearby.
The next day he brought Zinnia to us himself. He woke up early, fetched her, and Zinnia entered the house so shyly, as if afraid.
I told Vera:
“Let’s call her Mom, she’s good!”
And together, Vera and I shouted:
“Mom, Mom’s here!”
Dad and Zinnia together went to get Olive. Zinnia became a true mother to Olive. She cherished her. Olive never remembered our mother. Vera forgot too, but I remember her my whole life, and Dad does too. Once, overhearing him, I heard him quietly say to her photograph:
“Why did you have to leave so soon? You left and took all my joy with you.”
I didn’t stay long at home with Dad and my stepmother. From fourth grade, I went to boarding school as we had no large school in the village. After seventh grade, I entered technical college. I always wanted to leave home sooner, but why? Zinnia never hurt me with her words or actions; she looked after me as her own, yet I remained distant. Was I ungrateful?
I think choosing the midwifery profession was not a coincidence for me. I can’t turn back time to save my mother, but I can protect another…
