**Diary Entry**
I was orphaned at six years old when my mother died giving birth to my youngest brother. Even now, I remember it clearlyhow my mothers cries filled the house, how the neighbours gathered, weeping, until her voice fell silent.
Why didnt they call a doctor or take her to the hospital? I still dont understand. Was the village too remote? Were the roads too rough? There must have been a reason, though I never knew it. Mother died in childbirth, leaving us alone with our newborn sister, little Lottie.
Father was lost without her. His family were all down South, no one nearby to help with us. The neighbours urged him to remarry quickly. Barely a week after the funeral, he was already engaged.
They suggested he marry the village schoolmistressa kind woman, they said. And so he did. He asked for her hand, and she agreed. Perhaps she fancied him. He was young, handsometall and lean with dark, almost gypsy-like eyes. Anyone would have admired him.
One evening, Father brought his bride home to introduce us. *”Ive brought you a new mother!”*
A knot of bitterness twisted inside me, something my childs heart couldnt accept. The house still smelled of our mother. We wore dresses she had sewn and washed with her own hands, and here he was, offering us a replacement. Now, with time, I understand. But back then, I hated himand her. I dont know what tales she spun about us, but she walked in arm-in-arm with Father, both a little tipsy.
*”Call me Mother, and Ill stay,”* she said.
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. *”No, we wont call you that! Youre a stranger!”*
*”What impertinence! Fine, then I wont stay.”*
The schoolmistress stormed out. Father hesitated on the threshold but didnt follow. He slumped back, gathered us in his arms, and weptgreat, heaving sobs. We cried with him, even little Lottie in her blankets. We mourned our mother; he, his beloved wife. But our tears held a deeper sorrow. An orphans grief is the same the world over, and the ache for a mother knows no language. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.
He stayed another fortnight before leaving for work in the logging camps up north. There were no jobs in the village. He left money with a neighbour for food, placed Lottie with another, and went.
And there we werealone. The neighbour came to cook and stoke the fire, then left. The rest of the day was ours: cold, hungry, afraid.
The village wondered how to help. We needed a woman to save our familynot just any woman, but one whod love anothers children as her own. Where to find her?
Word spread of a distant cousin of a villager, a young woman left by her husband for bearing no childrenor perhaps shed lost them. No one knew for sure. They sent a letter, and Aunt Mabel brought her to usZoe.
Father was still away when Zoe arrived one quiet morning. We woke to footsteps in the house, the clatter of dishes, the scent ofcould it be?pancakes.
We peeked through the crack in the door. Zoe moved softly, washing up, tidying. Then she called, *”Come, little blondes, time to eat!”*
It made me smilewe *were* fair-haired, blue-eyed, like Mother.
We crept out. *”Sit at the table!”* No coaxing needed. After the first bite, we trusted her. *”Call me Aunt Zoe,”* she said.
She bathed us, washed our clothes, then left. But she returned the next dayand the next. Under her hands, the house bloomed, clean and ordered, just as Mother had kept it. Three weeks passed before Father came home from the woods.
Aunt Zoe cared for us impeccably but kept her distance, resisting our affection. Little Vera adored hershe was only three. I held back. Zoe was stern, rarely smiling. Mother had been joyfulalways singing, dancing, calling Father *”Johnny.”*
*”When your father returns, he may not want me here,”* Zoe said once. *”Whats he like?”*
Flustered, I sang his praisestoo well. *”Hes wonderful! Easygoing! When he drinks, he just falls asleep!”*
Zoe stiffened. *”Drinks much?”*
*”Yes!”* chirped Vera. I elbowed her. *”Only at festivals.”*
That night, Zoe left in better spirits. When Father returned, he stepped inside, astonished. *”I thought youd be half-starved. Youre living like princesses!”*
We told him everything. He sat quiet, thoughtful. *”Well, lets meet this new mistress of the house.”*
*”Shes lovely,”* Vera rushed. *”Makes pancakes, tells stories.”*
Looking back, I smile. Zoe was no beautyslight, plain, unremarkable. But children see where true beauty lies.
Father laughed, dressed smartly, and went to Aunt Mabels. The next day, he brought Zoe home. She entered timidly, as if afraid.
I whispered to Vera, *”Should we call her Mother?”*
Together, we shouted, *”Mummy! Mummys here!”*
Father and Zoe fetched Lottie together. For her, Zoe truly became a mothermeticulous, tender. Lottie never knew our real mother. Vera forgot. But I remember. Once, I caught Father gazing at Mothers photo, murmuring, *”Why did you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.”*
Soon, I left home. Boarding school after primary, then trade school at fourteen. I was eager to gowhy? Zoe never harmed me, treated me as her own. Yet I kept my distance. Ungrateful, perhaps.
I became a midwifeno accident. I cant turn back time to save my mother, but I can save another.
**Lesson learned:** A mothers love isnt always bornsometimes, it chooses you. And sometimes, healing means letting it in.
