**Diary Entry**
I became an orphan at six years old when my mother died giving birth to my baby brother. I still remember it clearlyhow we were already two little girls, and Mother was expecting the third. The screams, the neighbours gathering, weeping, until her voice fell silent
Why didnt they call a doctor? Why wasnt she taken to hospital? Even now, I cant understand. Was the village too remote? Were the roads impassable? There must have been a reason, but whatever it was, Mother was gone, leaving us alone with tiny little baby Oliver.
Father was lost without her. His family lived down in Cornwall, too far to help, and there was no one here in Yorkshire to care for us. The neighbours urged him to remarry quickly. Barely a week after the funeral, he was engaged.
They suggested the village schoolteachersaid she was kind-hearted. And Father listened. He proposed, and she accepted. Maybe she liked himhe was young, handsome. Tall and lean, with dark, almost Gypsy-like eyes. Anyone would have admired him.
That evening, he brought his bride home to meet us. *”Ive brought you a new mother!”*
My heart twisted with bitterness, something my childs mind couldnt accept. The house still smelled of Mum. We wore dresses shed sewn and washed with her own hands, and here he was, introducing a new mother. Now, years later, I understandbut back then, I hated him for it, and his bride too.
Theyd been drinking a little, arm in arm, when she said, *”Call me Mum, and Ill stay.”*
I turned to my younger sister. *”Shes not our mother. Our mothers dead. Dont call her that!”*
Little Emily burst into tears, and I, the eldest, glared. *”No, we wont call you that! Youre a stranger!”*
*”Oh, what rude little things!”* She sniffed. *”Well then, I wont stay with you.”*
She marched out. Father hesitated on the threshold, then turned back, gathered us in his arms, and sobbedgreat, heaving cries. We cried with him. Even baby Oliver whimpered in his blankets. We grieved for our mother; he grieved for his wife. But an orphans tears weigh heavier. Missing a mother feels the same in any language. That was the only time I ever saw my father cry.
He stayed with us another fortnight. He worked in forestryhis crew was heading into the moors. What else could he do? There were no jobs in the village. He left money with a neighbour for food, sent Oliver to another, and went off to work.
We were alone. The neighbour came to cook and warm the house, then leftshe had her own chores. All day, it was just us: cold, hungry, afraid.
The village discussed how to help. We needed a woman to save our familynot just anyone, but someone special, whod take anothers children as her own. Where could they find her?
Then they remembereda distant cousin of one villager, a young woman left by her husband because she couldnt bear children. Or could, but theyd died, and no others came. No one knew for sure. They sent for her, and through Aunt Margaret, Zara came to us.
Father was still away when she arrived early one morning. She moved so quietly, we didnt hear her. I woke to footsteps, the clatter of dishesjust like Mum used to. And the smell? Pancakes!
We peeked through the crack in the door. Zara worked calmlywashing plates, sweeping. Only when she heard us stir did she call, *”Come along, little blondes, breakfasts ready!”*
It made me smile, being called that. We *were* fair-haired, blue-eyed, just like Mum.
We crept out. *”Sit at the table!”* No argument there. We ate, already trusting her. *”Call me Aunt Zara.”*
She bathed us, washed our clothes, and left. The next day, she returned. The house transformed under her handsclean and orderly, like it had been with Mum. Three weeks passed with Father still away. Aunt Zara cared for us flawlessly but held backnever letting us grow too attached. Little Emily adored her, but I was wary. Zara was strict, rarely smiling. Mum had been full of laughter, singing, dancingshed called Father Jimmy.
*”When your father returns, he might not want me. Whats he like?”*
Flustered, I nearly ruined it by saying, *”Hes wonderful! So calm! When he drinks, he just falls asleep!”*
Zara frowned. *”Does he drink much?”*
*”Yes!”* Emily chirped. I nudged her. *”Only at celebrations!”*
That night, Zara left seeming easier. Father returned after dark, staring around in surprise. *”Thought youd be half-starved, 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?”*
*”Lovely!”* Emily rushed. *”Makes pancakes, tells stories!”*
Looking back, it makes me smile. Zara wasnt beautifulthin, plain, quiet. But children know where true beauty lies.
Father laughed, dressed smartly, and went to Aunt Margarets.
The next day, he brought Zara home. Hed fetched her early, and she stepped inside timidly, as if afraid.
I whispered to Emily, *”Shall we call her Mum?”*
Together, we shouted, *”Mummy! Mummys here!”*
Father and Zara went to collect Oliverthe child she truly became a mother to. She doted on him. He never remembered Mum. Emily forgot too. But I remembered. And once, I heard Father murmur at Mums photograph: *”Why did you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.”*
I left home earlyboarding school after primary, then technical college. Always eager to be gone. Why? Zara never hurt me. She cared for me like her own. But I kept my distance. Ungrateful, perhaps.
I became a midwifenot without reason. I cant turn back time and save my mother. But I can protect someone elses.
