I Became an Orphan at Six Years Old When My Mother Died Giving Birth to My Baby Brother

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

I still remember it clearlyhow we were already two little girls, and Mum was expecting the third. I remember her screams, the neighbours gathering, crying, until her voice fell silent…

Why didnt they call a doctor? Why didnt they take her to the hospital? To this day, I dont understand. Was the village too remote? Were the roads impassable? There must have been a reason, but Ill never know. Mum died in childbirth, leaving us alone with tiny baby Olivia.

Dad was lost without her. His family was all down south, and there was no one to help him care for us. The neighbours suggested he remarry quickly. Barely a week after the funeral, he was engaged.

They told him to marry the village schoolteachersaid she had a kind heart. And so he did. He proposed, and she accepted. Maybe she fancied himhe was young, handsome, tall, with dark, almost gypsy-like eyes. Enough to make anyone look twice.

Either way, that evening, Dad brought his new bride home to introduce her.
*”Ive brought you a new mum!”*

A wave of grief and bitterness washed over mesomething my childish heart couldnt accept. The house still smelled like our mother. We wore dresses shed sewn and washed with her own hands, and now here he was, presenting us with a replacement. Now, years later, I understand. But back then? I hated him. And her.

I dont know what she expected, but she walked in arm-in-arm with Dad, both a bit tipsy, and said,
*”Call me Mum, and Ill stay.”*

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

When my sister started crying, I, being the eldest, squared my shoulders and said,
*”No, we wont call you that! Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!”*
*”Well, arent you a cheeky one?”* she scoffed. *”Fine, then I wont stay.”*

She turned and walked out. Dad hesitated in the doorwayalmost went after herbut stopped. He just stood there, head bowed, before finally coming back inside. He pulled us into a crushing hug and broke down sobbing. We cried with himeven little Olivia in her cradle wailed along. We were mourning Mum; he was mourning his wife. But our tears held a deeper sorrow than his. The grief of orphans is the same everywhere, and the ache of missing a mother needs no translation. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.

He stayed with us two more weeks. His joblogging in the woodsmeant he had to leave again. There was no other work in the village. He arranged for a neighbour to bring us food, left Olivia with another, and headed back into the forest.

And there we werealone. The neighbour would come, cook, warm the house, then leave. She had her own life. Meanwhile, we spent our days cold, hungry, and frightened.

The village tried to help. We needed a woman to save our familynot just anyone, but someone special, someone who could love anothers children as her own. Where do you find someone like that?

Eventually, word spread about a distant cousin of one villagera young woman abandoned by her husband because she couldnt have children. Or maybe shed had some who died. No one knew for sure. They tracked down her address, sent a letter, and through Aunt Mabel, Zara was called to us.

Dad was still away when Zara arrived early one morning. She was so quiet, we didnt even hear her come in. I woke to the sound of footstepssomeone moving around the kitchen, the clatter of dishes. And that smellpancakes!

We peeked through the door crack. Zara worked calmly, washing plates, sweeping the floor, until she noticed we were awake.
*”Come on, little blondies, time to eat!”*

I almost laughed at that. *Blondies?* Well, she wasnt wrongwe *were* fair-haired with blue eyes, just like Mum.

We crept out, cautious.
*”Sit down!”*
She didnt have to ask twice. We devoured those pancakes, and already, we trusted her.
*”Call me Aunt Zara.”*

She bathed us, washed our clothes, then left. The next day, she came back. The house transformed under her handsclean, orderly, just like when Mum was alive. Three weeks passed. Dad returned from the woods.

Aunt Zara had cared for us perfectly, but she held backnever letting us get too close. Little Verity, just three then, adored her. I was more wary. Zara was strict, rarely smiled. Mum had been cheerful, always singing, dancing, calling Dad *”Jim, love.”*

*”When your father comes back, he might not want me here,”* Zara said once. *”Whats he like?”*

Flustered, I praised him so much I nearly spoiled everything.
*”Hes wonderful! So gentle! When he drinks, he just falls asleep!”*

Zaras eyebrows shot up.
*”Drinks a lot, does he?”*
*”Yes!”* chirped Verity, until I elbowed her.
*”Only at parties!”*

That night, Zara left looking thoughtful. When Dad came home, he stared around the house, stunned.
*”Thought youd be half-starved, 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?”*

*”Beautiful!”* Verity gushed. *”She makes pancakes, tells stories!”*

Now, looking back, I smile. Zara wasnt beautifulthin, plain, forgettable. But children know where true beauty lies.

Dad laughed, dressed smartly, and went to Aunt Mabels. The next day, he brought Zara home. She stepped inside, hesitant, as if afraid.

I whispered to Verity,
*”Should we call her Mum now?”*

And together, we shouted,
*”Mummy! Mummys home!”*

Dad and Zara fetched Olivia, who never remembered our real mother. Verity forgot too. But Dad and I? We remember. Once, I heard him murmur at Mums photo,
*”Whyd you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.”*

I left home earlyboarding school from Year 4, then technical college. Always in a hurry to get away. But why? Zara never hurt me, treated me like her own. And yet, I kept my distance. Ungrateful, maybe?

I became a midwifenot by accident. I cant turn back time to save my mother. But I can make sure no other child loses theirs.