I became an orphan at six years old, the day my mother gave birth to my youngest brother.
I remember it clearlystanding there, just a child, while my mothers cries echoed through the house. The neighbours gathered, whispering, weeping, until her voice fell silent.
Why didnt they call a doctor? Why didnt they take her to the hospital? Even now, I dont understand. Was the village too remote? Were the roads impassable? There had to be a reason, but I never knew it. She died in childbirth, leaving us alone with our newborn sister, little Olivia.
Father was lost without her. Our family was from the South, and he had no one in the North to help. The neighbours urged him to remarry. Less than a week after the funeral, he was engaged.
They suggested the schoolteachersaid she was kind. So Father went to her, and she agreed. Maybe she fancied himhe was young, handsome. Tall and lean, with dark, gypsy-like eyes that could make anyone look twice.
One evening, he brought her home.
“Ive brought you a new mother.”
A bitterness twisted inside me, something my childs heart couldnt swallow. The house still smelled of our mother. We wore dresses she had sewn and washed with her own hands, and now he stood there with this stranger. Now, years later, I understand, but back then, I hated them both.
I dont know what lies she whispered about us, but she clung to Fathers arm, both of them slightly drunk.
“Call me Mother,” she said, “and Ill stay.”
I turned to my younger sister.
“Shes not our mother. Ours is dead. Dont call her that!”
My sister burst into tears, and I, the eldest, glared at the woman.
“No, we wont call you Mother! Youre a stranger!”
“Well then,” she sneered, “I wont stay with such rude little girls.”
She stormed out. Father hesitated at the threshold, torn, before turning back. He sank to his knees, pulled us close, and weptgreat, heaving sobs. We cried with him. Even baby Olivia whimpered in her crib. We grieved for our mother; he grieved for his wife. But an orphans tears hold a different sorrow. The longing for a mother is the same in every language. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.
He stayed with us two more weeks. He worked in forestry, and his crew was heading into the hills. There was no other work in the village. He left money with a neighbour for food, sent Olivia to another, and disappeared into the wilderness.
We were alone. The neighbour came, cooked, warmed the house, then left. She had her own life. And so we spent our dayscold, hungry, afraid.
The village debated how to help us. We needed a woman to save our familynot just any woman, but one who could love anothers children as her own. Where could they find such a person?
Rumour spread of a distant cousin of one villagera young woman abandoned by her husband because she couldnt bear children. Or perhaps she had, and theyd died. No one knew for sure. They sent a letter, and through Aunt Mabel, they summoned Zara for us.
Father was still away when she arrived one quiet morning. She moved so softly we didnt hear her. I woke to the sound of footsteps, the clink of dishes, andwas that the smell of pancakes?
We peeked through the door crack. Zara moved calmlywashing plates, sweeping floorsuntil she noticed us.
“Come here, my little blondes,” she called. “Lets eat!”
It amused me that she called us that. We *were* fair-haired and blue-eyed, like Mum.
We crept out.
“Sit,” she said.
We didnt hesitate. The pancakes were warm, and already, we trusted her.
“You can call me Aunt Zara.”
She bathed us, washed our clothes, then left. The next day, she returned. Under her hands, the house transformedclean and orderly, just as it had been with Mum. For three weeks, while Father was gone, she cared for us perfectlybut kept a distance, as if afraid to let us grow attached.
Little Verity adored her. At three, she didnt remember Mum. I did. I was cautious. Aunt Zara was stern, rarely smiling. Our mother had been full of laughter, singing, dancingcalling Father “James” with a grin.
“When your father comes back,” Zara asked once, “do you think hell accept me? Whats he like?”
I hesitated, then blurted, “Hes wonderful! Gentle! When he drinks, he just falls asleep!”
Zaras eyes narrowed.
“Drinks often?”
“Yes!” Verity chirped.
I elbowed her.
“Only at celebrations!”
That night, Zara left seeming lighter. When Father returned, he looked around in surprise.
“I thought youd be miserable, but youre living like princesses.”
We told him everything. He sat, thoughtful, then said,
“Well, lets meet this new mistress of the house. Whats she like?”
“Pretty!” Verity rushed. “She makes pancakes. Tells stories!”
Looking back, I smile. Zara wasnt prettythin, plain, unremarkable. But children know where true beauty lies.
Father laughed, dressed, and went to Aunt Mabels. The next morning, he brought Zara home. She stepped inside shyly, as if bracing for rejection.
I whispered to Verity,
“Shall we call her Mother?”
Together, we shouted,
“Mummy! Mummys here!”
Father and Zara fetched Olivia, whom Zara loved fiercely. Verity forgot our mother; Olivia never knew her. But Father and I remembered. Once, I heard him murmur at her photo,
“Why did you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.”
I left home earlyboarding schools, then college. Maybe I wanted to escape. Zara never gave me reason to. She treated me as her own. Yet I held back. Ungrateful, perhaps.
I became a midwife. Not without reason. I cant go back and save my mother. But I can save another.
