I was six years old when I became an orphan, the day my mother gave birth to my youngest brother. I still remember it so clearlyjust us two girls before the third was on the way. The screams of my mother, the neighbors gathered, crying, until her voice went silent
Why didnt they call a doctor or take her to the hospital? Even now, I dont understand. Was the village too far? Were the roads impossible? I dont know, but there mustve been a reason. She died in childbirth, leaving us alone with tiny baby Olivia.
Dad was lost without her. His family was all down in Cornwall, no one up here in Yorkshire to help with us. The neighbors whispered he ought to remarry quickly. Not even a week after the funeral, he was engaged.
They said he should marry the schoolteacherkind-hearted, they called her. And so he did. Asked for her hand, and she accepted. Maybe she fancied himhe was young, handsome. Tall, lean, dark eyes like a gypsys. Enough to make anyone look twice.
Anyway, one evening he brought his new fiancée home to meet us. *”Ive brought you a new mum!”*
My heart twisted with something bitter, something my childs mind couldnt swallow. The house still smelled of our mother. We wore dresses shed sewn and washed with her own hands, and here he was, replacing her. Now, grown, I understandbut back then, I hated him for it. Hated *her*, too. I dont know what she whispered about us, but she walked in arm-in-arm with Dad, both a bit tipsy, and said, *”Call me Mum, and Ill stay.”*
I grabbed my little sisters hand. *”Shes not our mum. Our mums dead. Dont you dare!”*
My sister burst into tears. I was the eldestI wouldnt back down. *”We wont call you that. Youre a stranger!”*
*”Cheeky little thing! Fine, thenI wont stay.”*
The teacher stormed out. Dad hesitated at the doordidnt follow. Just stood there, head down. Then he came back, hugged us tight, and sobbed like his heart would break. We cried with him. Even baby Olivia whimpered in her cradle. We were mourning Mum, him his wifebut orphans grief cuts deeper. A mothers absence aches the same in any tongue. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.
He stayed two more weeks before his forestry crew left for the highlands. No other work in the village. He left money with a neighbor for food, sent Olivia to another, and went off to the pines.
And there we werealone. The neighbor came, cooked, lit the hearth, then left. She had her own life. Us? Cold, hungry, scared.
The village talkedhow to help us? We needed a woman to save the family. Not just anyone, but someone whod take other children as her own. Where to find her?
Rumors led them to a distant cousin of a villagera young woman left by her husband because she couldnt bear children. Or maybe she had, and theyd diedno one knew for sure. They sent a letter, and through Aunt Mabel, they called for *Zoe*.
Dad was still away when she arrived one morning, so quiet we didnt hear her. I woke to footsteps, the clatter of dishesthe smell of *pancakes*.
We peeked through the door crack. Zoe moved softlywashing up, sweeping. Then she called, *”Come on, little blondies, breakfasts ready!”*
Funny, calling us that. We *were* fair-haired, blue-eyed, like Mum.
We crept out. *”Sit down, then.”* No arguingwe devoured those pancakes. *”Call me Aunt Zoe,”* she said.
She bathed us, scrubbed our clothes, left. Next day? She came back. The house transformed under her handsspotless, like Mum had kept it. Three weeks passed. Dad still away. Aunt Zoe cared for us perfectly, but kept a distancelike she feared wed cling. Little Verity adored her; me, I held back. Zoe was stern, rarely smiled. Mum had been livelysang, danced, called Dad *”Jimmy.”*
*”When your father returns, he might not want me. Whats he like?”*
I nearly ruined it, babbling: *”Hes lovely! So calm! When he drinks, he just falls asleep!”*
Zoes eyes narrowed. *”Drinks much?”*
*”Loads!”* Verity chirped. I elbowed her. *”Only at weddings!”*
Zoe left that night seeming lighter. Dad came home after dark, stared around. *”Thought youd be half-starved. Living like princesses!”*
We told him everything. He sat quiet, then: *”Right. Lets meet this new mistress of the house. Whats she like?”*
*”Beautiful,”* Verity gushed. *”Makes pancakes. Tells stories.”*
Looking back, I smile. Zoe wasnt beautifulthin, plain, mousy. But children know where real beauty lies.
Dad laughed, dressed smart, went to Aunt Mabels. Next day, he brought Zoe home. She stepped in shyly, like she feared something.
I whispered to Verity: *”Shall we call her Mum?”*
Together, we shouted: *”Mummy! Mummys here!”*
Dad and Zoe fetched Olivia together. For her, Zoe *was* Mumfussed over her like gold. Livy never knew our mother. Verity forgot. Me and Dad? We remembered. Once, I heard him murmur at Mums photo: *”Whyd you leave so soon? Took all my joy with you.”*
I left home youngboarding school at ten, then college. Always itching to go. Why? Zoe never hurt me, treated me as hersbut I kept her at arms length. Ungrateful, maybe.
I became a midwife. No accident. Cant turn back time, cant save Mumbut I can save another.
