I was orphaned when I was six years old. Mother already had two children — my younger sister Emily and me — and she was giving birth to a third. I remember it all: Mother’s screams, neighbors gathering and weeping, how her voice went quiet… Why didn’t anyone fetch a doctor? Why didn’t they take her to hospital? I still can’t understand it. Was our Yorkshire village too remote? Were the roads snowed under? There must’ve been a reason. Mother died in childbirth, leaving Emily, the newborn baby Charlotte, and me. Father was lost after her death; no relatives lived near us — all were down south near London — and neighbors advised him to remarry quickly. Not a week passed after Mother’s funeral when he proposed to the local schoolteacher, described as a kind woman; she accepted, likely swayed by Father’s looks — tall, handsome with piercing gypsy-dark eyes. That evening, he brought her home. “Brought you a new mum!” Bitterness flooded me; childlike instinct sensed wrongness. The house still smelled of Mother. We wore dresses she’d sewn and washed, yet here stood a stranger. Years later I understood, but then I hated them both. Tipsy, they entered arm-in-arm as she declared: “Call me Mum, and I’ll stay.” I whispered to Emily: “She’s not Mum! Mum’s dead — don’t say it!” Emily wailed while I stepped forward: “No! You’re not our mother!” “Chatty, aren’t we? Then I won’t stay,” she snapped, turning away. Father moved to follow but froze at the threshold — hesitated, head bowed — then turned back and hugged us, weeping aloud. We cried with him, baby Charlotte fretting in her crib. We mourned Mother; Father wept for his beloved wife, yet Emily and I held deeper grief. Orphan tears hold universal pain; longing for one’s mother needs no translation. That was the single time I saw Father cry. He stayed two weeks before returning to the Northumberland logging camp; timber work was scarce in our village. He paid neighbor Louise Wilkins for food, left Charlotte with Mrs. Hobbs, and disappeared into the forest. Alone, Emily and I spent days freezing, hungry, frightened. Louise would cook or stoke the stove before leaving; she had her own troubles. The parish discussed our rescue: a special woman needed — one who’d cherish other children as her own. Word came of parishioner Martha’s relative Jane, deserted by her husband for barrenness — or from losing an only child, rumours differed. They contacted Jane through Martha. Father was logging when Jane arrived at dawn, slipping in silently. I woke to footsteps — someone moved like Mother
I was orphaned at six. Mother already had my sister and me when she went into labor with her third child. I remember her screams, the neighbor women gathering, their weeping, then Mother’s voice falling silent… Why didn’t they fetch doctors? Why didn’t they take her to hospital? I still don’t understand. Was it too far to the village? Roads blocked by snowdrifts? There must’ve been some reason… She died in childbirth, leaving us two and newborn Charlotte. Father was lost after Mother’s death—no kin nearby in our remote Cotswold village, everyone back in London. Neighbors urged Father to remarry quickly. Barely a week after Mother’s funeral, he was courting. They suggested the schoolteacher, calling her a kind woman. Father proposed and she accepted—perhaps fancied him? Young and handsome he was: tall, lean, with gypsy-dark eyes you could gaze at forever.
He brought his bride home at dusk. “Got you a new mum!” Bitter resentment rose in me—my child’s heart sensed wrongness in this. Our home still smelled of Mother. We wore dresses she’d sewn and laundered
