At Six, I Became an Orphan When My Mother Died Giving Birth to My Younger Brother

I became an orphan at six years old when my mother died giving birth to my youngest brother.

I remember it clearlybeing six and suddenly motherless. We were already two girls, and Mama was expecting the third. I can still hear her cries, the neighbors gathering, weeping, until her voice fell silent…

Why didnt they call a doctor or take her to the hospital? I still dont understand. Was the village too remote? Were the roads impassable? I dont know, but there must have been a reason. Mama died in childbirth, leaving us alone with the newborn baby, little Molly.

Father was lost without her. He had no family up Norththey were all down Southand no one to help him raise us. The neighbors urged him to remarry quickly. Less than a week after the funeral, he was engaged again.

They suggested he marry the village schoolteacher, saying she was kind-hearted. So he did. He proposed, and she accepted. Maybe she fancied himhe was young, handsome, tall and lean with dark, striking eyes. Anyone would have noticed.

That evening, Father brought his bride home to meet us.
*”Ive brought you a new mother!”*

A sharp pain twisted inside me, a bitterness my childs heart couldnt swallow. The house still smelled of Mama. We wore dresses she had sewn and washed with her own hands, and now he was giving us a *new* mother? Years later, I understandbut back then, I hated him for it. And I hated his bride too. I dont know what she expected of us, but she walked in arm-in-arm with Father, both of them a little tipsy.

*”Call me ‘Mum,’ and Ill stay,”* she said.

I turned to my younger sister and whispered, *”Shes not our mum. Our mum is dead. Dont call her that!”*

My sister burst into tears, and I, the eldest, snapped, *”No, we wont! Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!”*

*”Well, arent you a bold little thing?”* she scoffed. *”Fine, then. I wont stay.”*

She marched out the door. Father hesitated on the threshold, torn, but didnt follow. Eventually, he turned back, gathered us in his arms, and weptgreat, heaving sobs. We cried with him. Even little Molly wailed in her blankets. We mourned our mother; he mourned his beloved wife. But in our tears, there was a deeper grief. An orphans sorrow is the same in every land, and a childs longing for their mother needs no translation. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.

He stayed with us two more weeks. He worked as a lumberjack, and his crew was heading into the woods. What else could he do? There were no other jobs in the village. He arranged for a neighbor to bring us food, left some money, and sent Molly to stay with another woman. Then he was gone.

Left alone, we struggled. The neighbor came to cook and stoke the fire but left quicklyshe had her own chores. We spent our days cold, hungry, and afraid.

The village debated how to help us. We needed a woman who could save our familynot just anyone, but someone special, willing to love anothers children as her own. Where could they find her?

Word spread of a young woman, a distant relative of a villager, abandoned by her husband because she couldnt bear childrenor perhaps she had, and theyd died. No one knew for sure. They sent a letter, and through Aunt Mabel, they called for Jenny to come to us.

Father was still away when Jenny arrived one quiet morning. She slipped in so softly we didnt hear her. I woke to footsteps in the housesomeone moving about, clattering dishes in the kitchen. And that smell… pancakes!

Peeking through the door crack, we watched. Jenny worked calmlywashing plates, sweeping the flooruntil she noticed we were awake.

*”Come here, little blondies, time to eat!”*

I almost laughed at *”blondies.”* We *were* fair-haired with blue eyes, just like Mum.

We crept out cautiously.
*”Sit at the table!”*
No argument there. We devoured the pancakes and felt, for the first time, trust in this woman.
*”Call me Aunt Jenny.”*

Later, she bathed us, washed our clothes, and left. The next day, we waitedand she returned! The house transformed under her care, clean and orderly, just like when Mum was alive. Three weeks passed with Father still away. Aunt Jenny tended to us flawlessly but kept her distance, as if guarding against attachment. Little Vera, just three, adored her. I was warier. Jenny was stern, rarely smiling. Mama had been livelysinging, dancing, calling Father *”James”* with a laugh.

*”When your father returns, he might not want me here. Whats he like?”*

Flustered, I praised him so much I nearly ruined things.
*”Hes wonderful! So calm! When he drinks, he just falls asleep!”*

Jenny frowned. *”Does he drink often?”*
*”Yes!”* Vera chirped.
I elbowed her. *”Only at celebrations!”*

That night, Jenny left seeming reassured. When Father finally came home, he glanced around in surprise.
*”I thought youd be struggling, but youre living like princesses!”*

We told him everything. He sat quietly, then said, *”Well, lets meet this new mistress of the house. Whats she like?”*

*”Pretty!”* Vera blurted. *”She makes pancakes and tells stories!”*

Looking back now, I smile. Jenny wasnt prettysmall, thin, plain. But children know where true beauty lies.

Father chuckled, dressed neatly, and went to Aunt Mabels. The next day, he brought Jenny home. He woke early to fetch her, and she stepped inside timidly, as if afraid.

I whispered to Vera, *”Should we call her ‘Mum’ now?”*

Together, we shouted, *”Mummy! Mummys here!”*

Father and Jenny went to collect Molly, whom Jenny truly mothered. She was meticulous with her. Molly never remembered our real mother. Vera forgot too. But I remember. And once, I heard Father murmur, staring at Mamas photo,

*”Why did you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.”*

I left home youngboarding school from fourth grade, then trade school after seventh. I always wanted to escape. But why? Jenny never hurt me, never treated me as anything but her own. Yet I held back. Ungrateful, perhaps?

I became a midwife, and not by chance. I cant turn back time to save my motherbut I can save another.