At Six Years Old, I Became an Orphan as 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 Mum was expecting the third. I can still hear her screams, the neighbours gathering, crying, until her voice fell silent

Why didnt they call a doctor or take her to the hospital? To this day, I dont understand. Was our village too remote? Were the roads impassable? I dont know, but there must have been a reason. Mum died in childbirth, leaving us alone with tiny newborn Lily.

Dad was lost without her. He had no family up Norththey were all down Southand no one to help care for us. The neighbours suggested he remarry quickly. Barely a week after the funeral, he was engaged.

They recommended he marry the village schoolteacher, calling her a good-hearted woman. And so he did. He proposed, and she accepted. Perhaps she fancied himhe was young, handsome. Tall and lean, with dark, almost gypsy-like eyes. Anyone wouldve been taken with him.

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

A wave of bitterness and grief washed over mesomething my childs heart couldnt accept. The house still smelled of Mum. We wore dresses shed sewn and washed with her own hands, and now he was introducing a new mother. Now, years later, I understand. But back then, I hated himand her.

I dont know what shed been told about us, but she walked in arm-in-arm with Dad, both a little tipsy, and said:
*”Call me Mum, and Ill stay.”*
I turned to my younger sister and whispered:
*”Shes not our mother. Our mothers dead. Dont call her that!”*

Little Emily started crying, and I, the eldest, spoke up:
*”No, we wont call you that! Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!”*
*”Well, arent you bold!”* she snapped. *”Fine, then I wont stay.”*

She marched out. Dad hesitated in the doorway, torn, but he didnt follow. Instead, he turned back, gathered us in his arms, and wept. We cried with himeven tiny Lily whimpered in her blankets. We mourned our mother; he mourned his beloved wife. But our tears held more sorrow than his. An orphans grief is the same everywheremissing a mother needs no translation. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.

He stayed with us two more weeks. He worked in forestry, and his crew was heading into the hills. There was no other work in the village. He arranged for a neighbour to bring food, left Lily with another, and left for the woods.

We were alone. The neighbour would come, cook, warm the house, then leaveshe had her own chores. And there we were, day after day: cold, hungry, afraid.

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

Then word spread of a distant cousin, a young woman left by her husband because she couldnt have childrenor perhaps she had, but theyd died. No one knew for sure. They got her address, sent a letter, and through Aunt Mabel, they brought in Aunt Grace for us.

Dad was still away when Grace arrived early one morning. She entered so quietly we didnt hear her. I woke to footsteps in the house. Someone moved about like Mum used todishes clinking, the smell of pancakes in the air!

We peeked through the crack in the door. Grace worked calmlywashing plates, sweeping. Then she noticed we were awake.
*”Come here, little blondies, time to eat!”*

It was funny, her calling us that. We *were* fair-haired with blue eyes, just like Mum.

We gathered our courage and stepped out.
*”Sit at the table!”*
No argument needed. We ate the pancakes, already trusting her.
*”Call me Aunt Grace.”*

Later, she bathed us, washed our clothes, and left. But the next day, she returned. The house transformed under her careclean, orderly, just like when Mum was alive. Three weeks passed with Dad still away. Aunt Grace cared for us flawlessly, yet she held back, maybe guarding against attachment. Little Emily adored hershe was only three. I was more cautious. Grace was stern, rarely smiling. Mum had been livelysinging, dancing, calling Dad *”James”* with a laugh.

*”When your father returns, he might not want me. Whats he like?”*
Flustered, I praised him too muchnearly ruined it.
*”Hes wonderful! Gentle! When he drinks, he just falls asleep!”*
Grace frowned.
*”Does he drink often?”*
*”Yes!”* Emily chirped. I elbowed her.
*”Only at celebrations!”*

Grace left that night looking thoughtful. When Dad finally returned, he stepped inside, amazed.
*”I thought youd be struggling, but youre living like princesses!”*

We told him everything. He sat quiet, then said:
*”Well, lets meet this new mistress of the house. Whats she like?”*
*”Pretty!”* Emily rushed. *”Makes pancakes, tells stories!”*

Looking back now, I smile. Grace wasnt prettythin, plain, unremarkable. But children know where true beauty lies.

Dad chuckled, dressed properly, and went to Aunt Mabels.

The next day, he brought Grace home. He fetched her early, and she stepped in shyly, as if fearing something.

I whispered to Emily:
*”Shall we call her Mum?”*

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

Dad and Grace went for Lily together. For her, Grace truly became a mothermeticulous, devoted. Lily didnt remember Mum. Emily forgot. But I remember. And once, I heard Dad, staring at Mums photo, murmur:
*”Why did you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.”*

I left home youngboarding school after primary, then college. I always wanted to leave early. Why? Grace never hurt meshe cared for me like her own. Yet I kept my distance. Ungrateful, perhaps.

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