My mother battled cancer for many years. When she was just twenty-seven and my father was thirty-one, she slipped away from us. There were three of us in the family then. I was the youngestbarely two years old at the time. My father was overwhelmed and in desperate need of a wife, or rather, a mother for us. Unable to cope, he visited a woman he knew and asked if she would allow her daughter to marry him. Without hesitation, the woman gave her blessing, and so our new mother, Elizabeth, joined our family at the tender age of twenty-one.
Elizabeth immediately took charge of the household, putting everything in order with a brisk efficiency. Out of her own savings, she purchased fabric and sewed school uniforms for the older two of us. The elder children quickly grew accustomed to calling her mum, but I struggled with it. I was slow to speak, and it was no easy task for her with me. One day, I showed Elizabeth how my real mother always wore her hair in a low bun at the nape of her neck. From that day on, Elizabeth wore her hair the same way.
Even so, I still couldnt bring myself to call her mum. My father devised a schemeElizabeth baked my favourite apple pie, and the whole family gathered around the table. Everyone helped themselves to the pie, but I wasnt allowed a slice unless I called Elizabeth mother. It was a hard lesson for me.
Three years later, Elizabeth, our new mother, gave birth to her first childthe fourth for our family. But this was when trouble began for us. Father couldnt find work in his chosen field and instead joined an agricultural co-operative. Elizabeth took a job there as well. Four years passed, and another child was born. Elizabeth never made a distinction between her own and not her own children.
Five years on, Elizabeth fell ill with the same disease that claimed my first mother. By that time, my older siblings were off studying at university in London. Elizabeth was hospitalised, and I visited her daily. She kept telling the doctors she couldnt possibly be sick, she had young children waiting for her at home. Miraculously, she overcame the illness.
Our joy knew no bounds. She endured unimaginable pain, but her spirit was indomitable. When life began to look up, tragedy returned. Six months later, our parents first son together made plans to marry. On the night before the wedding, he vanished. After thirty-six agonising days, he was found, and later laid to rest.
I went back to live with my parents then, unable to leave Elizabeth alone in her grief. After him, my father passed away, followed by my older brother, and the youngest grandsonmy younger sisters boy. Their family was in a car accident, but only her son was injured.
I marvel, even now, at how Elizabeth kept her warmth and love through so much suffering. She raised five children, cares for her grandchildren, and now delights in her two great-grandchildren. Each morning, she rises early, tidies the house, and settles down to knit little cardigans and booties for her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Spending time with her is the greatest comfort. Despite her age, she always has stories and wisdom to share. Her love fills the family and reaches each of us.
