I became an orphan at the age of six. My mother already had two daughters and was giving birth to her third. I remember everythinghow she cried out, how the neighbours gathered around, weeping, how her voice faded away
Why didnt they call a doctor or take her to the hospital? I never understood. Was it because the village was remote? Were the roads blocked by snow? I still dont know, but there must have been a reason. My mother died in childbirth, leaving behind me, my sister, and the newborn baby, Rosalind.
After Mums death, my father was lost. We had no family nearbythey were all in the West, and no one was there to help him care for us. The neighbours advised him to remarry quickly. Less than a week after Mums funeral, he was already engaged.
People suggested he propose to the village schoolmistress, saying she was a kind woman. My father went and secured her agreement. Clearly, he had charmed her. He was young and handsometall, lean, with dark Gypsy-like eyes one could lose themselves in.
That evening, my father arrived with his fiancée. “Ive brought you a new mother!” I felt such anger, a bitter resentment I couldnt yet name, but my childs heart knew something was wrong. The house still smelled of Mum. We still wore the dresses shed sewn and washed, and now he was already bringing us a new mother. Looking back, I understandbut then, I hated him for it.
I dont know what she expected, but she walked in arm-in-arm with my father, both slightly drunk. “Call me Mum,” she said, “and Ill stay.” I turned to my little sister. “Shes not our mother. Ours is dead. Dont call her that!”
My sister burst into tears, while I, the eldest, stepped forward. “No, we wont call you Mum. Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!”
“Oh, what spirit in such a little girl! Well then, I wont stay with you.”
The schoolmistress left, and my father nearly followedbut hesitated at the door. He stood still, head down, then turned, gathered us in his arms, and wept. We cried with him. Even baby Rosalind in her cradle whimpered. We mourned our mother, and Dad mourned his beloved wifebut our grief ran deeper than his. An orphans tears are the same everywhere, and sorrow for a mother is universal. It was the first and last time I saw him cry.
He stayed with us two more weeks before leaving for his work in the timber industry. There were no other jobs in the village. He arranged for a neighbour to feed us and left Rosalind with anotherthen he was gone.
We were alone. The neighbour came to cook and light the fire, then left. The village began searching for a solutiona woman who could love us as her own. Eventually, they found her: a distant cousin knew a woman abandoned by her husband because she couldnt have children. Her name was Aunt Millie.
One morning, she arrived silently. I woke to footsteps in the housesomeone moving like Mum had, the clatter of pans, the smell of pancakes. My sister and I peeked out. She was cleaning, humming.
“Come on, then, little ducklings,” she called. “Time to eat!”
We hesitatedthen devoured the pancakes. “Call me Aunt Millie,” she said.
For weeks, while Dad was away, she cared for uswashing, tidying, making the house feel like home again. But she never let us get too close. My sister, Violet, adored her, but I was wary. Mum had been bright and lively, singing and calling Dad “Arthur.” Aunt Millie was quiet, strict.
When Dad returned, he marvelled. “I thought youd be living in squalor, but its like a palace!”
We told him everything. “Ill meet this woman,” he mused. “Whats she like?”
“Oh, shes beautiful,” Violet said. “She makes pancakes and tells stories!”
Looking back, I smileMillie wasnt beautiful by any standard. But do children see such things?
The next day, Dad brought her home. I whispered to Violet, “Lets call her Mumshes kind!” And together, we cried, “Mum! Mums here!”
She became a true mother to Rosalind, who never remembered our real mother. Violet forgot toobut I remembered, just as Dad did. Once, I caught him whispering to Mums photo, “Why did you leave so soon?”
I didnt stay long with them. At ten, I was sent to boarding school, then to technical college. I always wanted to leavebut why? Aunt Millie never hurt me, never treated me as anything but her own, yet I refused to love her. Was I ungrateful?
Perhaps its no accident I became a midwife. I cant turn back time to save my motherbut Ill save others. Loss teaches us to cherish what remains.
