The weight of loss settled on my shoulders at the age of six, the day my mother died bringing my baby brother into the world.
I remember it stillthe cries of my mother, the neighbors crowding in, their hushed whispers turning to sobs until her voice faded forever. Why didnt they call a doctor? Why didnt they take her to the hospital? Was our village too remote? The roads too rough? Ill never know. But there must have been a reason. She was gone, leaving us alone with tiny baby Lucy in her swaddling blankets.
Father was lost without her. Our family lived in the South, far from our northern village, and there was no one left to help care for us. The neighbors urged him to remarry quickly. Barely a week after the funeral, he was engaged.
They suggested the schoolteachera kind woman, they said. And so he went. He asked for her hand, and she accepted. Maybe she fancied himhe was young, handsome, tall and lean with dark, striking eyes. Anyone would have admired him.
That evening, he brought his bride home to meet us.
*”Ive brought you a new mother!”*
A bitter ache twisted inside me, something my childs heart couldnt bear. The house still smelled of our mother. We wore the dresses shed sewn and washed with her own hands, and now he stood there, offering us a stranger. Now, years later, I understand. But then? I hated him. Hated *her*. I dont know what she whispered about us, but she entered arm-in-arm with Father, both a little tipsy.
*”Call me ‘Mum,’ and Ill stay,”* she said.
I turned to my little sister.
*”Shes not our mother. Our mothers dead. Dont call her that!”*
My sister burst into tears, and I, the eldest, glared up at the woman.
*”No, we wont! Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!”*
*”Well, arent you bold?”* She huffed. *”Fine. Then I wont stay.”*
She marched out. Father hesitated on the thresholdthen turned back. He gathered us in his arms and wept, great heaving sobs, and we cried with him. Even little Lucy wailed in her crib. We mourned our mother; he mourned his wife. But orphan tears weigh heavier. The longing for a lost mother speaks the same language in every land.
Father stayed two more weeks before returning to the logging crew. There was no other work in the village. He left money with a neighbor for food, sent Lucy to another, and disappeared into the woods.
We were alone. The neighbor came, cooked, lit the stove, then left. She had her own life. And we? Cold. Hungry. Afraid.
The village fretted over how to help. We needed a womannot just any woman, but one who could love anothers children as her own. Where could they find such a person?
Then they remembereda distant cousin of one villager, a young woman left by her husband because she couldnt bear children. Or perhaps she had, and theyd died. No one knew for sure. They sent word, and soon, Aunt Zina arrived.
Father was still in the woods when she came. She moved so quietly we didnt hear her enter. I woke to footsteps, the clink of dishesand the scent of pancakes.
We peeked through the door crack. Zina worked calmly, washing, sweeping. Then she called, *”Come, little blondes, time to eat!”*
It made me laugh. We *were* blonde, with blue eyes, just like Mum.
We crept out. *”Sit at the table,”* she said. No argument needed. We devoured the pancakes and already trusted her. *”Call me Aunt Zina.”*
She bathed us, washed our clothes, then left. But the next day? She returned. The house transformed under her handsclean, orderly, just like Mum had kept it. Three weeks passed. Father was still away. Aunt Zina cared for us perfectly but held back, as if afraid to let us cling. Little Verina adored her. I was wary.
Zina was stern, rarely smiling. Our mother had been joyful, singing, dancing, calling Father *”John.”*
*”When your father returns, he might not want me,”* Zina said one evening. *”Whats he like?”*
Flustered, I nearly ruined everything. *”Hes wonderful! So gentle! And when he drinks, he just falls asleep!”*
Zina frowned. *”Drinks often?”*
*”Yes!”* chirped Verina.
I elbowed her. *”Only at holidays!”*
That night, Zina left in better spirits. When Father returned, he stared around the house in surprise. *”I thought youd be half-starved. Youre living like princesses!”*
We told him everything. He sat a long moment, then said, *”Well, lets meet this new mistress of the house. Whats she like?”*
*”Beautiful!”* Verina gushed. *”She makes pancakes! Tells stories!”*
Looking back, I smile. Zina wasnt beautifulthin, plain, quiet. But children know where true beauty lies.
Father chuckled, dressed properly, and fetched her from Aunt Mabels.
The next morning, he brought her home. She stepped inside shyly, as if bracing for rejection.
I whispered to Verina, *”Should we call her ‘Mum’?”*
And together, we shouted, *”Mummy! Mummys here!”*
Father and Zina later brought Lucy home too. For her, Zina truly became a mother. She doted on the baby, whod never known our real mother. Verina forgot. But I remembered. And once, I heard Father whisper to 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. I couldnt wait to go. Why? Zina never hurt me. She treated me like her own. But I held back. Was I ungrateful?
I became a midwifeno accident. I cant turn back time to save my mother. But I can protect others.
