I became an orphan when I was six. My mum already had two daughters and was about to have her third. I remember everythinghow she screamed, how the neighbours gathered and cried, how her voice faded away…
Why didnt they call a doctor or take her to hospital? Ive never understood that. Was it because our village was so remote? Were the roads blocked by snow? I still dont know, but there must have been a reason. My mum died in childbirth, leaving behind me, my sister, and the newborn baby, Daisy.
After Mums death, Dad was lost. We had no family nearbythey were all up Northso no one could help him look after us. The neighbours urged him to remarry quickly. Less than a week after Mums funeral, he was already engaged.
People suggested he propose to the village schoolteacher, saying she was kind. Dad went, and she agreedobviously, she liked him. He was young and handsome, no doubt about it. Tall, slim, with dark eyes like a travellers. Easy to get lost in them.
Anyway, that evening, Dad brought his fiancée home to introduce her. *”Ive brought you a new mum!”*
I was so angry. Bitter. Too young to understand properly, but feeling in my heart that something was wrong. The house still smelled like Mum. We were still wearing the dresses shed made and washed, and now here he was, bringing us a *new* mum. Looking back, I get itbut back then, I hated him. I hated *her*. I dont know what she expected, but she walked in arm in arm with Dad.
They were both a bit tipsy, and she said, *”Call me Mum, and Ill stay.”*
I whispered to my little sister, *”Shes not our mum. *Ours* is dead. Dont call her that!”*
My sister burst into tears, and I, the eldest, stepped forward. *”No. We wont call you Mum. Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!”*
*”Oh, such cheek from such a little girl!”* she said. *”Fine, then. I wont stay.”*
The schoolteacher left, and Dad nearly followedbut he stopped in the doorway, torn. He just stood there, head down, then turned back, pulled us into his arms, and sobbed. We cried with himeven little Daisy in her crib started whimpering. We were crying for our mother; he was crying for his wife. But our grief felt bigger. An orphans tears are the same everywhere. The ache for a lost mother is the same in every language. That was the firstand lasttime I ever saw my dad cry.
He stayed with us two more weeks before leaving for his logging job. What else could he do? There was no other work in the village. He arranged for a neighbour to check on us, left money for food, handed Daisy to another neighbour, and went off into the woods.
We were alone. The neighbour came, cooked, lit the stove, and left. She had her own life. So we spent our days cold, hungry, and afraid. The village started thinking of solutions. We needed a special womanone who could love us as her own. But where do you find someone like that?
Eventually, word got around. A distant cousin of one villager knew a womanabandoned by her husband because she couldnt have children. Maybe shed had one who died; no one really knew. They found her address, wrote a letter, and through this other auntiecalled *June*they brought her to us.
Dad was still in the woods when June arrived early one morning. She came in so quietly, we didnt hear. I woke to footsteps. Someone moving like Mum used to, clattering in the kitchen, the smell of pancakes filling the house!
My sister and I peeked out. June was quietly workingwashing dishes, scrubbing floors. Then she noticed we were awake. *”Come on then, my little ducklingstime to eat!”*
*Ducklings?* We were confused. We *were* blond and blue-eyed, like Mum had been. We gathered our courage and crept out.
*”Sit down!”* she said. We didnt hesitate. We stuffed ourselves with pancakes and started trusting herjust a little. *”Call me Auntie June.”*
Later, she bathed me and my sister Claire, scrubbing us clean before leaving. She came back the next day. The house was *transformed*spotless, like when Mum was alive. Three weeks passed. Dad was still in the woods. Auntie June took care of us well but never let us get too close. Claire adored herbut she was only three. I was warier. June was strict, a bit distant. Mum had been livelyalways singing, dancing, calling Dad *”Oliver.”*
*”Whats your dad like?”* June asked one day.
I bragged clumsily, nearly ruining everything. *”Hes brilliant! So well-behaved! When he drinks, he just falls asleep!”*
June stiffened. *”Does he drink often?”*
*”All the time!”* Claire chirped. I *kicked* her under the table. *”Nojust at celebrations!”*
June left that evening, reassuredand Dad came home that very night. He looked around, stunned. *”I thought youd be living in squalor, but youre living like duchesses!”*
We told him everything. He sat quietly, then said, *”Right. Ill go meet this new housekeeper. Whats she like?”*
*”A proper beauty,”* Claire announced. *”She makes pancakes and tells stories.”*
Looking back, it makes me smile. June *wasnt* a beauty by any standardsmall, plain, thin. But what do kids know about real beauty?
Dad laughed, dressed smart, and went to see the auntie who lived nearby. The next morning, he returned with June. Hed woken early to fetch her. She stepped inside, hesitant, *scared*.
I whispered to Claire, *”Lets call her Mum. Shes nice!”* And together we shouted, *”Mum! Mums here!”*
Dad and June went to get Daisy together. To her, June *was* her mothershe doted on her like treasure. Daisy never remembered our real mum. Claire forgot. Only me and Dad held onto her. Once, I caught Dad looking at Mums photo, whispering, *”Why did you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.”*
I didnt stay with Dad and June long. By Year 4, I was sent to boarding schoolno secondary school in our village. After Year 7, I went to technical college. I always wanted to leave *early*. Why? June never hurt meshe protected me like her own. But I never let myself get close. Was I ungrateful?
Maybe its no accident I became a midwife. I cant go back and save my mumbut I *can* save another.
