I lost my mother when I was just six years old. My sister and I were already living with her, and she was giving birth to our little brother. I remember it all—the way she cried out, how the neighbors gathered and wept, and how her voice gradually faded away…
Why didn’t anyone call a doctor or take her to the hospital? To this day, I can’t understand it. Was the village too far? Were the roads blocked? There must have been a reason. Mum passed away during the birth, leaving us with our newborn brother, Oliver.
After Mum died, our dad was lost. We didn’t have any family nearby to help out; everyone was back in the West, miles away. The neighbors advised Dad to quickly remarry. It wasn’t even a week after Mum’s funeral before Dad was already a suitor.
He was encouraged to propose to the schoolteacher, who was said to be a kind woman. And he did; he went and proposed, and she accepted. Maybe she found him charming? He was indeed a handsome man—tall and lean, with strikingly dark eyes. You couldn’t help but stare.
Anyway, Dad came back with his new bride that evening.
“I’ve brought you a new mum!” he announced.
I felt a sense of bitterness and unease. I wasn’t using my head, but my heart—something was off about it. The house still smelled like Mum. We were still wearing dresses sewn and laundered by her hand, and yet he had found us a new mum. Looking back, I understand Dad now, but at that moment, I hated him and his bride. Who knows what stories she cooked up about us, but she waltzed in, arm-in-arm with Dad.
Both of them were a bit tipsy, and she said to us:
“If you call me Mum, I’ll stay.”
I told my younger sister:
“She’s not our mum. Our mum passed away. Don’t call her that!”
My little sister started to cry, and I, being the eldest, stepped forward.
“No, we won’t! You’re not our mum. You’re a stranger!”
“Such a talkative one! Well then, I won’t stay with you,” the teacher retorted.
She left, and Dad almost went after her but stopped at the doorway, his head hanging. He then turned back, came over to us, embraced us, and started to cry loudly, and we cried along with him. Even little Oliver began to whimper in his cot. We were mourning our Mum, and Dad was mourning his beloved wife, but our grief was deeper. An orphan’s tears are the same everywhere, and the longing for a dear mother is universal. It was the first and last time I ever saw Dad cry.
Dad lived with us for a couple more weeks before heading to work in the forestry. His team went deep into the woods; there were no other jobs in our village. He arranged with a neighbor to leave some money for our food, and Oliver was left with another neighbor.
And so we were alone. The neighbor would come around, cook, light the fire, then leave to handle her own affairs. We were left in the house all day, cold, hungry, and frightened.
The village started discussing how to help us. We needed a woman who could step in and treat us as her own. But where could we find such a person? During conversations, people learned about a distant relative of one of the villagers—a young woman abandoned by her husband because she was childless. Or maybe she had a child that passed away, and God didn’t bless her with more. No one knew the full story. Nevertheless, they found her address, wrote a letter, and summoned Zina via Aunt Martha.
Dad was still in the woods when Zina arrived early one morning. She entered the house so quietly that we didn’t hear her. I woke up to the sound of footsteps. Someone was moving around just like Mum used to, clattering dishes in the kitchen, and there was a wonderful scent—pancakes cooking!
We peeked out from a corner. Zina was quietly taking charge, doing the dishes and scrubbing the floors. She realized from the sounds we were awake.
“Come now, little fair-haired ones, let’s eat!” she called.
We found it amusing she called us that. My sister and I were indeed fair and blue-eyed, just like Mum. We mustered our courage and came out.
“Take your seats!” she said without needing to tell us twice. We filled up on pancakes and felt a sense of trust towards this woman.
“You can call me Aunt Zina,” she said.
Later, Aunt Zina bathed us, washed all our clothes, and then left. The next day, we eagerly awaited her return, and she did! Under her hands, the house transformed, becoming as tidy and organized as when Mum was around. Weeks passed, and Dad was still in the woods. Aunt Zina watched over us, and things couldn’t be better, but she remained reserved, perhaps keeping herself from getting too attached. Especially little Vera was drawn to her. It made sense, being just three years old at the time. I was more cautious. This Aunt Zina was strict, not particularly cheerful. Mum was lively, loved singing and dancing, and affectionately called Dad, “Johnny.”
“When your dad gets back from the woods, he might not accept me. What’s he like?” she asked.
I clumsily praised Dad, almost ruining everything! I said, “He’s great! Very calm! Gets a bit drunk and just goes straight to bed!”
Aunt Zina immediately grew wary: “Does he drink often?”
“Often!” replied my little sister, whom I nudged under the table then quickly added, “No, only on holidays.”
Aunt Zina left that evening reassured, and Dad returned from the woods that night. As he entered, he surveyed the room, surprised: “I thought you’d be in distress here, but you’re living like princesses.”
We explained everything as best we could. Dad sat down to think for a while, then said, “Well, I should take a look at the new housekeeper. What’s she like?”
“She’s beautiful,” Vera eagerly interjected, “and she makes pancakes and tells stories.”
Looking back, I always smile at that. By ordinary standards, Zina couldn’t be described as beautiful. Petite and somewhat plain, she certainly wasn’t a conventional beauty. But what do children know about such things? Or perhaps only they truly see the beauty in a person?
Dad chuckled, dressed up, and headed over to Aunt Martha’s, who lived nearby. The next day, he brought Zina to our house himself. He rose early, fetched her, and Zina entered the house just as timidly as before, as if afraid of something.
I told Vera: “Let’s call this one Mum. She’s the good one!”
And we both shouted in unison: “Mum, Mum has come home!”
Dad and Zina went together to fetch Oliver. For him, Zina truly became a mother—she doted on him. Oliver never knew our mum. Vera forgot, and I am the only one who remembers her all my life, as does Dad. I overheard once when Dad, looking at Mum’s photograph, softly said:
“Why did you leave so soon? You left and took all my happiness with you.”
I didn’t live with Dad and my stepmother for long. From fourth grade, I was in boarding schools as there wasn’t a big school in our village. After seventh grade, I moved on to a vocational college. I was eager to leave home, but why? Zinaida never hurt me with a word or deed, she treated me like her own, yet I always remained distant. Was I ungrateful somehow?
I chose the profession of a midwife, perhaps not by chance. I can’t go back in time and save my mum, but I can protect another.
