I became an orphan at six years old when my mother died giving birth to my youngest brother.
I still remember it clearlythe screams of my mother, 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 cant understand. Was the village too remote? Were the roads impassable? Ill never know, but there must have been a reason. Mother died in childbirth, leaving us alone with the newborn baby, little Emily.
Father, lost without her, had no family nearbythey were all down in the Southand no one to help care for us. The neighbours urged him to remarry quickly. Barely a week after the funeral, he was already betrothed.
They suggested he marry the village schoolmistress, saying she had a kind heart. And so he did. He asked for her hand, and she accepted. Perhaps she fancied himhe was young, handsome, tall and slender, with dark, almost gypsy-like eyes. It was enough to catch anyones eye.
One evening, Father brought his bride home to meet us.
*Ive brought you a new mother.*
A sharp pang of bitterness twisted inside mesomething my childish 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 another woman in her place. Now, with time, I understand, but back then, I hated him for itand his bride too. I dont know what she whispered about us, but she walked in arm-in-arm with Father, both a little drunk, and said:
*Call me Mother, and Ill stay.*
I turned to my younger sister and said:
*Shes not our mother. Ours is dead. Dont call her that!*
Little Lizzie burst into tears, and I, being the eldest, spoke up:
*No, we wont call you Mother! Youre a stranger!*
*What impertinence! Well then, I shant stay.*
The schoolmistress stormed out, and Father made to follow but hesitated at the threshold. He stood there, head bowed, then turned back, gathered us in his arms, and weptgreat, heaving sobs. We cried with him, even little Emily whimpering in her cradle. We grieved for our mother; he mourned his beloved wife. But in our tears lay a deeper sorrow than his. An orphans grief is the same the world over, and the ache for a lost mother knows no language. It was the only time I saw my father cry.
He stayed with us two more weeks. His work took him into the forestshis crew was bound for the highlands. What else could he do? There was no other work in the village. He arranged with a neighbour to leave money for food, and Emily went to stay with another. Then he left for the woods.
Alone we remained. The neighbour came to cook and warm the house before leaving againshe had her own chores. And so we spent our days: cold, hungry, and afraid.
The village wondered 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 such a woman be found?
Word came of a distant cousin of one villagera young woman left by her husband because she bore no children. Or perhaps she had, and they diedno one was quite certain. They sent a letter, and through Aunt Margaret, they summoned Agnes for us.
Father was still away when Agnes arrived one quiet morning. She slipped in so softly we didnt hear her. I woke to footsteps in the housesomeone moving about as Mother used to, the clatter of dishes, and a scentwere those pancakes?
Peeking through the door crack, we watched her work: washing plates, sweeping the floor. Then she called:
*Come, little blondes, breakfast is ready!*
It amused meshe called us *little blondes*, though it was true. We had fair hair and blue eyes, just like Mother.
Cautiously, we stepped out.
*Sit at the table!*
No persuasion was needed. We ate her pancakes and began to trust her.
*Call me Aunt Agnes.*
She bathed us, washed our clothes, then left. The next day, she returned. The house transformed under her careclean and orderly, just as it had been with Mother. Three weeks passed with Father still away. Aunt Agnes cared for us flawlessly, yet held back, as if guarding against our affection. Lizzie, just three, adored her. I was more wary. Agnes was stern, seldom smilingunlike Mother, who sang, danced, and called Father *Jonathan* with a laugh.
*When your father returns, he may not accept me. What is he like?*
Flustered, I praised him so much I nearly ruined things.
*Hes wonderful! Gentle! When he drinks, he just falls asleep!*
Agnes frowned.
*Does he drink often?*
*Yes!* Lizzie blurted, but I nudged her.
*Only at celebrations!*
That night, Agnes left seeming lighter. When Father returned, he looked around in surprise.
*I thought youd be in misery, yet here you live like princesses.*
We told him everything. He sat thoughtful, then said:
*Well then, lets meet this new mistress of the house. Whats she like?*
*Pretty!* Lizzie rushed. *She makes pancakes and tells stories!*
Looking back now, I smile. Agnes was no beautythin, small, plain. But children know where true beauty lies.
Father chuckled, dressed smartly, and went to Aunt Margarets.
The next day, he brought Agnes home. He fetched her early, and she stepped inside shyly, as if fearing something.
I whispered to Lizzie:
*Shall we call her Mother?*
Together, we cried:
*Mama! Mamas here!*
Father and Agnes fetched Emily, for whom Agnes became a true mother. She doted on her. Emily remembered nothing of our mother. Lizzie forgot too. Only Father and I still carried the memory. Once, I overheard him murmur at Mothers portrait:
*Why did you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.*
I left home earlyboarding school after primary, then trade school. Always eager to be gone. Why? Agnes never wronged meshe cared for me as her own. Yet I kept my distance. Perhaps I was ungrateful?
I became a midwife, and not without reason. I cannot turn back time to save my mother, but I can shield another.
