I became an orphan at six years old when my mother passed away giving birth to my youngest brother.
I remember it clearlythe screams of my mother, the neighbours rushing in, their cries filling the air 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 blocked? There must have been a reason, but whatever it was, my mother died in childbirth, leaving us alone with newborn baby Olivia.
Father was lost without her. We had no family nearbythey all lived down southand no one to help care for us. The neighbours urged him to remarry quickly. Barely a week after the funeral, he was engaged. They suggested he marry the village schoolteacher, saying she had a kind heart. And so he did. Perhaps she fancied himhe was young, handsome, tall, with dark eyes that could charm anyone.
One evening, Father brought his bride home to meet us.
“Ive brought you a new mother,” he announced.
A deep 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 now he was introducing a stranger as our mother. Now, with time, I understand, but back then, I hated himand his new wife too. I dont know what she whispered to him, but she walked in arm in arm with Father, both a little tipsy.
“Call me Mum, and Ill stay,” she said.
I turned to my younger sister and whispered, “Shes not our mother. Our mothers gone. Dont call her that!”
When my sister started crying, I spoke up: “No, we wont call you that! Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!”
“Well, arent you bold?” she scoffed. “Fine, then I wont stay.”
She stormed out, and Father hesitated at the threshold before turning back. He sank to his knees, pulled us into his arms, and weptgreat, heaving sobs. We cried with him, even little Olivia whimpering in her cradle. We mourned our mother; he mourned his beloved wife. But our tears held a deeper sorrow than his. The grief of orphans is the same everywhere, and the ache for a lost mother needs no translation. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.
He stayed two more weeks before leaving for his logging work in the highlands. There were no other jobs in the village. He arranged for a neighbour to bring us food and left Olivia with another. Then he was gone.
We were alone. The neighbour came, cooked, warmed the house, and leftshe had her own chores. The whole village wondered how to help us. We needed a woman who could save our familynot just any woman, but one whod love anothers children as her own. Where could they find her?
Whispers spread of a distant cousin of one villagera young woman abandoned by her husband because she couldnt have children. Or perhaps she had, but theyd died. No one knew for sure. They sent her a letter, and soon, Aunt Mabel brought Zina to us.
Father was still away when Zina arrived one quiet morning. She moved so softly we didnt hear her enter. I woke to footsteps and the clink of dishesthen the smell of pancakes! Peeking through the door crack, I watched her work: washing plates, sweeping, tidying. Finally, she called, “Come, little blondes, breakfast is ready!”
It made me smilewe *were* fair-haired, with blue eyes like Mums. Cautiously, we stepped out. “Sit down,” she said, and we didnt argue. After eating, I felt a flicker of trust. “Call me Aunt Zina,” she told us.
She bathed us, washed our clothes, then left. The next day, she returned. The house transformed under her handsclean and warm, like it had been with Mum. Three weeks passed. Father came home one night, astonished. “I thought youd be struggling, but youre living like princesses!”
We told him everything. Thoughtful, he said, “Well, lets meet this new mistress of the house. Whats she like?”
“Beautiful,” little Vera rushed to say. “She makes pancakes and tells stories.”
Now, remembering, I smile. Zina wasnt beautifulthin, plain, quiet. But children know where true beauty lies.
The next day, Father brought her home for good. As she hesitated on the threshold, I whispered to Vera, “Should we call her Mum?” Together, we shouted, “Mummy! Mummys here!”
Zina became a mother to Olivia, who never knew ours. Vera forgot, but Father and I remembered. Once, I overheard him whisper to Mothers photo: “Why did you leave so soon? You took my joy with you.”
I left home earlyboarding school after primary, then college. I chose midwifery, not by chance. I cant turn back time to save my mother, but I can protect others. Life taught me this: love isnt always where you expect it, but kindness leaves its mark forever.
