**Orphaned at Six: A Mother of Two, Expecting a Third**
I became an orphan at the age of six. My mother already had two daughters and was giving birth to her third. I remember everythinghow she screamed, how the neighbours gathered, weeping, how her voice faded to silence
Why didnt they call a doctor or take her to the hospital? Ive never understood. Was it because our village was remote? Were the roads blocked by snow? I still dont know, but there must have been a reason. My mother died in childbirth, leaving behind me, my sister, and the newborn, Emily.
After Mums death, my father was lost. We had no family nearbythey were all up northand no one to help him care for us. The neighbours urged him to remarry quickly. Less than a week after the funeral, he was engaged.
They suggested he propose to the schoolteacher, calling her a kind woman. He agreed. She must have fancied himhe was young and handsome, tall and lean, with dark eyes like a wanderers. You could lose yourself in them.
That evening, my father brought his fiancée home.
“Ive brought you a new mum!”
I burned with anger, bitter without understanding why, my childs heart knowing something was wrong. The house still smelled like Mum. We still wore the dresses shed sewn and washed, and now here he was, offering us a replacement. Now, I understand. Back then, I hated himand her.
She looked us over as she entered, arm in arm with my father, both slightly tipsy.
“Call me Mummy,” she said, “and Ill stay.”
I turned to my sister. “Shes not our mum. Ours is dead. Dont call her that!”
My sister burst into tears. I stood firm.
“No. We wont call you that. Youre a stranger.”
“Well! Such spirit in a little girl,” she scoffed. “Then I wont stay.”
She left. My father hesitated at the threshold before turning back, gathering us in his arms, and weeping. We cried with himeven little Emily in her cradle whimpered. We cried for our mother; he cried for his beloved wife. But our grief was greater. The tears of orphans are the same everywhere. Missing a mother is universal.
That was the first and last time I saw him cry.
He stayed two more weeks before leaving for logging work in the forests. What choice did he have? No other jobs existed in the village. He left money with a neighbour to feed us, entrusted Emily to another, and left.
We were alone. The neighbour came, cooked, lit the stove, and left. She had her own life. We stayed frozen, hungry, and afraid. The village debated what to do. They needed a woman whod take us as her own. Where to find one?
Word spread until someone recalled a distant cousina young woman abandoned by her husband because she couldnt bear children. Perhaps shed lost one; no one knew. They wrote to her through Aunt Mabel, who brought her to us.
Father was still away when Mabel arrived at dawn. She moved so quietly, we didnt hear her. I woke to footstepssomeone moving like Mum, dishes clinking, the scent of pancakes filling the air.
My sister and I peeked out. Mabel worked calmly, cleaning, scrubbing floors. Soon, she knew we were awake.
“Come on, my little darlings! Time to eat!”
She called us thatwe were blond with blue eyes, just like Mum. Summoning courage, we crept out.
“Sit down,” she urged.
We devoured the pancakes. There was something safe about her.
“Call me Aunt Mabel.”
She bathed us, washed everything, then left. The next day, she returned. The house transformed under her handsclean and ordered, just like when Mum was here.
Three weeks passed. Father remained in the woods. Aunt Mabel cared for us well but never let us cling. My sister, Lilyjust threeadored her. I was wary. Mabel was strict, distant. Mum had been joyful, singing, dancing, calling Dad “James.”
“Whats your father like?” she asked once.
I bragged clumsily. “Hes wonderful! Always behaved! When he drinks, he falls right asleep!”
Mabel stiffened. “He drinks often?”
“All the time!” Lily chirped.
I kicked her under the table. “Only on special occasions!”
Mabel left, uneasy. That same night, Father returned. He scanned the house, stunned.
“I expected filth. Youre living like royalty!”
We told him everything. He sat, thoughtful, then said, “Ill meet this woman. Whats she like?”
“Shes beautiful,” Lily sighed. “She makes pancakes and tells stories.”
Looking back, I smile. Mabel wasnt beautiful by any standardplain, slender, unremarkable. But do children know real beauty?
Father laughed, dressed, and went to meet her. The next morning, he returned with Mabel. She entered timidly, as if afraid.
I nudged Lily. “Call her Mum. Shes kind.”
Together, we cried: “Mummy! Mummys here!”
Father and Mabel fetched Emily. For her, Mabel became a true mother, treasuring her like gold. Emily never remembered Mum. Lily forgot. Only I carried her memoryjust like Father. Once, I caught him gazing at her photo, whispering:
“Whyd you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.”
I didnt stay long with them. By fourth grade, I was sent to boarding schoolno higher education in our village. After secondary school, I went to technical college. I always wanted to leave. Why? Mabel never hurt me. She protected me like her own. But I refused to love her. Am I ungrateful?
I became a midwife. Maybe not by chance. I cant turn back time to save my motherbut Ill save another.
