I was orphaned at the age of six. My mother, who already had two daughters, was giving birth to her third child. I remember everythinghow she cried out, how the neighbors gathered and wept, how her voice faded into silence
Why didnt they call a doctor, or take her to the hospital? Ive never understood that. Why? Was it because our village was so remote? Were the roads blocked by snow? I still dont know, but there must have been a reason. My mother died in childbirth, leaving behind me, my sister, and the newborn baby, Lillian.
After Mothers death, Father was lost. We had no family nearbythey were all in the West, and no one was there to help him care for us. The neighbors advised him to remarry quickly. Less than a week after Mothers funeral, he was already engaged.
People suggested he court the schoolmistress, saying she was a kind woman. Father went to her and gained her consent. Clearly, she fancied himhe was young and handsome, after all. Tall and lean, with dark eyes like a gypsys, deep enough to lose yourself in.
That evening, Father arrived with his betrothed to introduce her.
“Ive brought you a new mother!”
I was furious, bitter without understanding why, but in my childish heart, I knew something was wrong. The house still smelled of Mother. We still wore the dresses shed sewn and laundered, and now here he was, presenting us with a new mother. Looking back, I understand, but then, I hated him and his bride. I dont know what she imagined of us, but she strode into our home arm in arm with Father.
They were both a bit tipsy, and she said,
“Call me Mama, and Ill stay.”
I whispered to my little sister,
“Thats not our mother. Ours is dead. Dont call her that!”
My sister burst into tears, and I, the eldest, stepped forward.
“No, we wont call you Mama. Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!”
“Goodness, what sharp tongues for such little girls!” she replied. “Well then, I shant stay.”
The schoolmistress left. Father moved to follow but hesitated at the threshold. He stood still, head bowed, then turned to us, gathered us into his arms, and wept bitterly. We cried with him. Even tiny Lillian in her crib began to whimper. We wept for Mother, and Father wept for his beloved wifebut our grief was deeper than his. An orphans tears are the same the world over. The ache for a lost mother is universal, no matter the tongue. That was the first and last time I saw my father cry.
He stayed with us another fortnight before leaving for work. He was a timberman, and his crew was bound for the woods. What choice did he have? There were no other jobs in the village. He arranged with a neighbor to feed us, left Lillian in anothers care, and departed.
We were alone. The neighbor came, cooked, lit the hearth, and left. She had her own life to tend to. All day, we were left to ourselvescold, hungry, and afraid. The village began to seek a solution for us. They needed a woman of rare kindness, willing to take us in as her own. Where could they find such a one?
Eventually, word came of a distant cousin who knew a young womanabandoned by her husband for being barren. Some said shed borne a child who died, and Heaven had denied her others. No one knew for certain. They found her address, wrote a letter, and through an aunt named Agnes, summoned her to us.
Father was still in the woods when Agnes arrived one morning. She entered so quietly, we didnt hear her. I woke to footsteps in the housesomeone moving about like Mother had, clattering in the kitchen. The smell of pancakes filled the air!
My sister and I peered through a crack in the door. Agnes worked in silence, washing dishes, scrubbing floors. At last, she sensed we were awake.
“Well now, my little golden-haired lasses, come and eat!”
We were puzzled by her calling us that. We were fair-haired and blue-eyed, just like Mother. Summoning courage, we stepped out.
“Sit yourselves down!”
We didnt hesitate. We devoured the pancakes, our wariness softening.
“Call me Aunt Agnes.”
Later, she bathed my sister Rose and me, scrubbing us clean before leaving. The next day, she returned. The house was transformed under her handsneat and tidy as it had been in Mothers day. Three weeks passed. Father remained in the woods. Aunt Agnes cared for us as best she could but never let us grow too attachedespecially Rose, who was only three. I was more wary. Agnes was stern, somewhat distant. Mother had been merry, singing and dancing, calling Father “Alfred.”
“Whats your father like?” Agnes asked one day.
I clumsily boasted of him, nearly ruining everything. “Hes wonderful! Well-behaved! When he drinks, he falls asleep at once!”
Agnes stiffened. “Does he drink often?”
“All the time!” Rose chimed in. I kicked her under the table.
“Only on special occasions!”
Agnes left that night reassured. Father returned that very evening. Stepping inside, he looked around in surprise.
“I expected squalor, but youre living like princesses!”
We told him everything. He sat thoughtful before saying,
“Ill go meet this new mistress of the house. Whats she like?”
“Shes ever so pretty,” Rose declared, “and she makes pancakes, and tells stories!”
Looking back, I smile. By no measure was Agnes a beautypetite, plain, and slight. But what do children know of such things?
Father laughed, dressed, and went to meet her. The next day, he returned with Agnes. Hed risen early to fetch her, and she entered timidly, as if fearing something.
I whispered to Rose,
“Lets call her Mama. Shes kind!”
Together, we cried out,
“Mama! Mamas here!”
Father and Agnes fetched Lillian together. To her, Agnes became a true mother, cherishing her like a treasure. Lillian never remembered our real mother. Rose forgot, too. Only I, like Father, carried her memory all my life. Once, I caught Father gazing at Mothers picture, murmuring,
“Why did you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.”
I didnt live long with Father and Agnes. By fourth form, I was sent to boarding schoolour village had no higher education. After seventh form, I went to technical college. Id always wanted to leave home early, but why? Agnes never wronged me with word or deed, treating me as her own. Yet I kept my distance. Was I ungrateful?
I chose to become a midwifeperhaps not by chance. I cant turn back time to save my mother, but I can spare another.
