I lost my mother when I was six. She was having her third child. We were already two girls, and she was giving birth to the third. I remember it all—the yelling, the neighbors gathering and crying, her voice growing silent.
Why didn’t they call a doctor or take my mom to the hospital? I still don’t understand. Was it because it was too far into the countryside? Were the roads blocked? There must have been a reason, but I still don’t know. Mom died during childbirth, leaving us two older siblings and the newborn, little Mary.
After mom’s death, dad was at a loss. We had no relatives nearby; they were all in another part of the country, so there was no one to help him with us. The neighbors advised Dad to marry quickly. Not a week had passed since Mom’s funeral, and there was Dad—already a groom.
The neighbors suggested Dad propose to a local teacher, saying she was a kind lady. Dad went to see her, proposed, and she agreed. Maybe she found him appealing? He was young and handsome for sure—tall, lean, with jet-black eyes that could captivate anyone.
Whatever it was, Dad came back in the evening with his fiancée for us to meet.
“I’ve brought you a new mum!” he announced.
A deep sense of bitterness welled up inside me. My heart sensed something wrong, even if my head didn’t understand it. The house still smelled like Mom. We were wearing clothes she had sewn and washed, and he was already presenting us with a new mom. Looking back, I understand him now, but then, I just hated him and his fiancée. She walked into our home hand in hand with Dad.
They were slightly tipsy, and she said to us, “Call me Mum, and I’ll stay.”
I told my younger sister, “She’s not our mum. Our mum is gone. Don’t call her that!”
My sister burst into tears, but I stood up as the older one.
“No, we won’t! You’re not our mum. You’re a stranger to us.”
“You’re quite outspoken, aren’t you?” she said. “Well, I won’t stay, then.”
The teacher left, and Dad almost went after her. But then he paused at the door, didn’t follow her, but instead turned around, came to us, hugged us, and began to cry out loud. And we cried with him. Even baby Mary whimpered from her crib. We were mourning our mum, our dear one, while Dad mourned his beloved wife. But our tears held more sorrow than his. Orphan tears are the same the world over, and the longing for a lost mother knows no language barrier. That was the first and only time in my life I saw my Dad cry.
Dad stayed with us for another couple of weeks. He worked in forestry, going off into the woods with his team. What were we to do? There was no other work in the village. Dad arranged with a neighbor to leave us some money for food. He even took Mary to another neighbor and headed into the woods.
And so, there we were, alone. The neighbor came round, cooked, lit the stove, and then left, her own housework pressing. We were left cold, hungry, and frightened all day long.
The village started considering how to help us. We needed a woman to take us in, someone special who could love us as her own children. But where could we find someone like that? Through word of mouth, we learned of a young woman related to one of the villagers. Her husband left her because she couldn’t have children—or maybe she did have a child, but it died, and no more came. No one knew the full story. Eventually, they tracked down her address, wrote her a letter, and through Aunt Martha, they called for Liz.
Dad was still away in the forest when Liz showed up at our place early one morning. She entered the house so quietly that we didn’t hear her. I woke up to the sound of footsteps inside. Someone was bustling in the kitchen, and the house was filled with the aroma of pancakes cooking!
We sneaked a peek through a crack and saw Liz calmly taking charge: washing dishes, scrubbing floors. Finally, she realized we were awake from the sounds we made.
“Come on now, you little darlings, let’s eat!”
We were puzzled that she called us “little darlings.” My sister and I really were fair-haired with blue eyes like our mum. We plucked up the courage and came out of the room.
“Sit at the table!”
We didn’t need telling twice. We ate our fill of pancakes and began to trust this woman.
“You can call me Aunt Liz,” she said.
Afterwards, Aunt Liz bathed both my sister Emily and me, washed everything, and left. But we waited the next day, and she came back! The house transformed under her care and was clean and tidy like it was with Mum. Three weeks went by while Dad was still away in the woods. Aunt Liz cared for us better than we could have ever hoped, yet she must have been very worried, never allowing us to grow attached. Especially little Emily gravitated toward her. She was only three years old. I behaved cautiously. Aunt Liz was strict and rarely smiled. Our mum had been cheerful, loved singing and dancing, and called Dad “Johnny.”
She’d say, “When your Dad returns from the woods, what if he doesn’t accept me? What’s he like anyway?”
I clumsily started praising him, nearly ruining everything! I said, “He’s good! Very peaceful! He drinks and goes straight to sleep!”
Aunt Liz instantly became wary, “Does he drink often?”
“Regularly!” Emily answered, as I kicked her under the table and said, “No, just on special occasions.”
Aunt Liz left that evening reassured. And then Dad came back from the woods that night. He came in, looked around, and said, “I thought you’d be struggling, but you’re living like little princesses.”
We filled him in as best we could. Dad sat, thought for a while, and then said, “Well, I’d better go and meet this new housekeeper. What’s she like?”
“Beautiful,” Emily piped excitedly, “She makes pancakes and tells stories!”
Now, looking back, I always chuckle. By no standard could Liz be called a beauty. She was thin, small, somewhat plain, truly not a looker, but what do kids know about beauty? Or perhaps only they know what real beauty is in a person?
Dad laughed, got dressed, and went to Aunt Martha’s, who lived nearby. The next day, Dad brought Liz home himself. He got up early, fetched her, and again Liz entered the house so timidly as if she feared something.
I told Emily, “Let’s call her Mum; she’s the right kind!”
And we both shouted, “Mum, Mum’s here!”
Dad and Liz together went to get Mary. Liz became a real mother to her, doting on her. Mary never knew our mother. Emily forgot, but I’ve remembered her all my life, and Dad too. I once overheard him whispering to Mom’s photograph, “Why did you leave so soon? You went away and took all my joy with you.”
I didn’t live long with Dad and my stepmother. From the fourth grade, I moved through boarding schools since our village didn’t have a large school. After the seventh grade, I enrolled in a technical college. I was always eager to leave home as soon as possible, but why? Liz never hurt me or upset me; she kept me as her own, yet I remained distant. Was I ungrateful?
I chose the profession of a midwife, maybe not by coincidence. I can’t go back in time to save my mom, but perhaps I can save another.
