**Diary Entry**
I became an orphan at six years old when my mother died giving birth to my youngest brother. Even now, I remember it clearlyhow we were already two little girls, and our mother was expecting her third. The sound of her screams, the neighbours gathering, weeping, until her voice fell silent
Why didnt they call a doctor or take her to the hospital? To this day, I still dont understand. Was the village too remote? Were the roads impassable? I dont know, but there must have been a reason. Mother died in childbirth, leaving us alone with tiny baby Olivia.
Father was lost without her. He had no family nearbythey were all down Southand no one to help care for us. The neighbours urged him to remarry quickly. Less than a week after the funeral, he was engaged.
They suggested he marry the schoolteacher, saying she was kind-hearted. And so he did. He proposed, and she accepted. Maybe she fancied himhe was young, handsome. Tall, lean, with dark, almost gypsy-like eyes. Anyone would have noticed him.
One evening, Father brought her home to introduce us. *”Ive brought you a new mother!”*
My chest tightened with bitterness, something my childs heart couldnt bear. The house still smelled of our mother. We wore dresses shed sewn and washed with her own hands, and already he was replacing her. Looking back, I understandbut back then, I hated him, and his bride too. I dont know what she expected, but she walked in arm in arm with Father, both a little tipsy.
*”Call me Mum, and Ill stay,”* she said.
I turned to my younger sister. *”She isnt our mother. Our mothers dead. Dont call her that!”*
My sister started crying, and I, the eldest, snapped, *”No, we wont! Youre a stranger!”*
*”What cheeky little things! Well then, I wont stay with you.”*
She left, slamming the door. Father almost followed, but he stopped on the threshold, turned back, and pulled us into a crushing embrace. He weptloud, gut-wrenching sobsand we cried with him. Even little Olivia wailed in her crib. We grieved our mother; he grieved his wife. But our tears held a deeper sorrow than his. An orphans grief is the same in every land, and a childs longing for their mother needs no translation. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.
He stayed with us two more weeks. His job was in forestry, and his team was assigned to the highlands. What choice did he have? There was no other work in the village. He arranged for a neighbour to bring us food, left some money behind, and sent Olivia to another neighbours care. Then he left for the woods.
We were alone. The neighbour would come, cook, warm the house, then leaveshe had her own life. And there we were, day after day: cold, hungry, afraid.
The village fretted over how to help us. We needed a woman to save our familynot just anyone, but someone special, someone who could love anothers children as her own. Where could they find her?
Eventually, word spread of a young woman, a distant relation of a villager, abandoned by her husband because she couldnt bear children. Or perhaps she had, and theyd diedno one was certain. They got her address, sent a letter, and through Aunt Mabel, they summoned Zina for us.
Father was still away when Zina arrived one quiet morning. She moved so softly, we didnt hear her come in. I woke to footsteps in the housesomeone moving about, like Mother used to, clattering dishes in the kitchen. And that smellpancakes!
Peeking through the door crack, we watched her workcalm, efficient. She washed dishes, swept the floor. Only when she knew we were awake did she speak. *”Come here, little blondies, time to eat!”*
It made me laugh, her calling us that. We *were* fair-haired, blue-eyed, just like Mum.
We crept out bravely. *”Sit at the table!”* No arguments there. We devoured the pancakes and felt, for the first time, safe with this woman. *”Call me Aunt Zina.”*
She bathed us, washed our clothes, then left. The next day, she returned. The house transformed under her handsclean, orderly, just like when Mum was alive. Three weeks passed with Father still away. Aunt Zina cared for us perfectly, yet held back, as if afraid to let us cling to her. Little Verity, just three, adored her. I was warier. Zina was stern, rarely smiling. Mother had been cheerful, singing, dancing, calling Father *”James”* with a laugh.
*”When your father comes back, he might not want me. Whats he like?”*
Flustered, I praised him too much. *”Hes wonderful! Gentle! When he drinks, he just falls asleep!”*
Zina frowned. *”Does he drink often?”*
*”Yes!”* chirped Verity, until I nudged her. *”Only at celebrations!”*
That night, Zina left seeming lighter. When Father returned, he walked in, stunned. *”I thought youd be half-starved, but youre living like princesses!”*
We told him everything. He sat quietly, then said, *”Well, lets meet this new mistress of the house. Whats she like?”*
*”Pretty!”* Verity burst out. *”She makes pancakes, tells stories!”*
Now, remembering, I smile. Zina was no beautythin, plain, unremarkable. But children know where true kindness lies.
Father laughed, dressed smartly, and went to Aunt Mabels. The next day, he brought Zina home. She entered timidly, as if afraid of something.
I whispered to Verity, *”Should we call her Mum?”*
Together, we shouted, *”Mummy! Mummys here!”*
Father and Zina later fetched Olivia, whom Zina mothered fiercely. Olivia never remembered our real mother. Verity forgot too. But Iand Fatherremember. Once, I overheard him murmur at Mothers photo: *”Why did you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.”*
I left home earlyboarding school from Year 4, then college after Year 7. Always restless, always wanting to escape. Why? Zina never hurt meshe cared for me like her own. But I kept my distance. Maybe I was ungrateful.
I chose midwifery for a reason. I cant turn back time to save my mother, but I can protect others.
