I was orphaned at six years old. There were already two little girls, and my mother was having the third. I remember everything – my mother’s screams, the neighbors gathering and crying, and the silence that followed as my mom’s voice faded away…
Why didn’t they call a doctor or take her to the hospital? I still can’t understand why. Was it too far to the town? Were the roads blocked? I never knew the reason. Mom died in childbirth, leaving us two children and newborn little Olivia behind.
Dad was lost after Mom’s death. We had no relatives nearby, and the family on my father’s side was all in the West, so there was no one to help him out with us. The neighbors suggested Dad get married urgently. Less than a week after Mom’s funeral, Dad was apparently engaged.
They advised him to propose to the teacher, saying she was a kind woman. Dad went and asked for her hand, and surprisingly, she agreed. Perhaps she liked him – he was young and handsome for sure. Tall, slim, with those deep black, almost gypsy-like eyes.
For whatever reason, Dad came home one evening with this woman.
“I’ve brought you a new mum!” he declared.
I felt a wave of bitterness. My child’s heart sensed something wrong. The house still smelled of my mom. We were still wearing dresses she made and washed, and yet he found us a new mom. Now with hindsight, I understand him, but back then, I resented him and the woman who entered our lives.
Whatever that woman thought, I don’t know, but she came in holding Dad’s hand.
They were both a bit tipsy, and she said:
“Call me Mom, or I won’t stay.”
I told my younger sister:
“She’s not our mom. Our mom passed away. Don’t call her that!”
My sister began to sob, and I stepped forward, being the eldest.
“No, we won’t! You’re not our mom. You’re a stranger!”
The teacher left, and Dad seemed like he was about to follow her but froze at the door. He stood there, head lowered, and then turned back to us. He hugged us and started crying out loud, and we began to cry with him too. Even little Olivia whimpered in her crib. We were mourning our mom, and Dad was grieving his beloved wife.
Dad stayed with us for two more weeks. He worked in the lumber industry, and his team often went to work in the forest. What could we do? There was no other work in the village. Dad made arrangements with a neighbor, left her money for our food, took Olivia to another neighbor, and then went off to the forest.
We were left alone. The neighbor would come over, cook, light the fireplace, and then leave. She had her chores. We stayed by ourselves all day, cold, hungry, and scared.
The village wondered how to help us. We needed a woman who could welcome someone else’s children as her own. Where to find such a person? Through conversations, they found out about a young woman in a distant relative’s family, whose husband had left her for being unable to have kids. Or maybe she lost a child and couldn’t have more; no one really knew. Eventually, they got in touch through Aunt Martha, and that’s how Zina came into our lives.
Dad was still in the forest when Zina came one morning. She entered the house so quietly that we didn’t hear. I woke up to the sound of footsteps. Someone was bustling around like Mom used to, making noise in the kitchen, and the house smelled so good! Pancakes!
My sister and I peeked through the crack. Zina quietly cleaned, washed dishes, and scrubbed floors. Finally, she realized we were awake by the noise.
“Come on, golden-haired girls, let’s eat!”
We found it funny that she called us that. My sister and I were indeed fair-haired and blue-eyed, just like Mom. We gathered our courage and stepped out.
“Take a seat at the table!”
We didn’t need to be asked twice. We filled up on pancakes and started to warm to her.
“Call me Aunt Zina,” she said.
Later, Aunt Zina bathed both Vera and me, washed all our clothes, and left. We waited for her the next day, and she returned! The house transformed under her care, becoming tidy and neat, just like when Mom was around. Three weeks passed, and Dad was still in the forest. Aunt Zina took care of us in an amazing way, but perhaps she was also anxious and didn’t want us to get too attached. Especially Vera seemed drawn to her—understandably so, as she was just three years old. I was more cautious. Aunt Zina was strict and not very smiley, unlike our singing, dancing, lively mom who called Dad “Johnny.”
“When your dad returns, he might not accept me. What’s he like, anyhow?”
I awkwardly started praising Dad, almost ruining everything!
“He’s great! Calm, you know! Drinks and then sleeps!”
Aunt Zina immediately grew alert:
“Does he drink often?”
“Often!” replied my sister, and I nudged her under the table, saying: “No, only on holidays.”
Aunt Zina left that night relieved, and Dad came back from the forest that evening. He walked in, looked around, surprised:
“I thought you’d be in a mess, but you’re living like princesses.”
We told him everything we could. Dad sat there, thought for a while, then said:
“Well, I guess I should meet this new helper. What’s she like?”
“She’s beautiful,” Vera chimed in eagerly, “She bakes pancakes and tells stories.”
Thinking back, I always smile at this. By conventional standards, Zina wasn’t a beauty. Thin, small, and plain, she certainly wasn’t beautiful. But what do kids know about beauty anyway? Or maybe they know the most about the true beauty within a person?
Dad laughed, got ready, and went to see Aunt Martha, who lived nearby.
The next day, Dad brought Zina home himself. He got up early, went for her, and Zina entered the house again, timidly, as though afraid.
I told Vera: “Let’s call her Mom; she’s great!” And we both shouted in unison:
“Mom, Mom’s here!”
Dad and Zina together went to fetch Olivia. For her, Zina became a true mother, caring for her deeply. Olivia never remembered Mom. Vera forgot, but I remembered her all my life, and so did Dad. Once, I overheard Dad quietly saying to Mom’s photograph:
“Why did you leave so early? You took all my joy with you.”
I didn’t live long with Dad and my stepmom. From fourth grade, I was in boarding schools since our village didn’t have a large school. After the seventh grade, I entered college. I always aimed to leave home early, but why? Zinaida never hurt me in any way. She cared for me as if I were her own, yet I remained distant. Was I ungrateful?
I likely didn’t choose the profession of a midwife by mere chance. I can’t turn back time to save my mom, but I can save another.
