I became an orphan when I was six years old. My mother already had two daughters and was about to give birth to a third. I remember everything: how my mother screamed, how the neighbors gathered and cried, how her voice slowly faded away…
Why didn’t they call a doctor? Why didn’t they take her to the hospital? To this day, I still don’t understand. Was there a reason? Was the village too remote? Were the roads impassable? I never found out. My mother died in childbirth, leaving the two of us behind—and the newborn, little Olguita.
After she passed, my father was lost. We had no family nearby in northern Spain; everyone lived in the south. There was no one to help care for us. The neighbors told him he had to remarry right away. It hadn’t even been a week since the funeral, and already my father was looking for a new wife.
They recommended a schoolteacher from the village, saying she was a kind woman. My father went to her, proposed, and she accepted. I suppose she liked him—he was young, handsome, tall and slender, with eyes as black as coal. It was hard not to notice him.
That very same evening, my father came home with his fiancée.
— I’ve brought you a new mother! — he announced.
A bitter rage surged in me. I didn’t understand it in my mind, but my little heart knew something wasn’t right. The house still smelled of our mother. We were still wearing the dresses she had sewn and washed for us—and now he brought home someone else to take her place. I understand it now, but at the time, I hated him and the woman he brought. I don’t know what she thought of us, but she entered our home on my father’s arm.
They were both a little drunk, and she said:
— If you call me “mom,” I’ll stay.
I whispered to my younger sister:
— She’s not our mom. Our real mom died. Don’t call her that!
My sister began to cry, and I, as the eldest, stepped forward.
— No, we won’t! You’re not our mother. You’re a stranger!
— Well, aren’t you a little firecracker! Then I won’t stay.
She walked out the door. My father made a move to follow her but stopped in the doorway. He stood still, head down, then turned back, hugged us both, and began to sob. We cried with him. Even tiny Olguita, in her cradle, began to whimper. We cried for our mother, and he cried for his beloved wife—but in our tears there was more pain than in his. The tears of orphans are the same all over the world, and the longing for a lost mother feels the same in every language. That was the first and only time I saw my father cry.
He stayed with us for two more weeks. He worked for a logging company, and his team had to leave for the forest. There was no other work in our village. He made arrangements with a neighbor—left her money for food—and placed Olguita in the care of another woman. Then he left for the woods.
We were alone. The neighbor came by to cook, light the stove, and then left again—she had her own life. We spent our days in the cold, hungry and afraid.
The villagers began to talk about how they could help us. We needed a woman to save our family—not just anyone, but someone truly special, someone who could love children that weren’t her own. Where could they find such a person?
Eventually, someone mentioned a distant relative of a neighbor. A young woman whose husband had left her because she couldn’t have children—or maybe she had lost a child and never had another. No one knew for sure. They got her address, wrote her a letter, and through Aunt Maruja, they reached out to Lola.
My father was still in the forest when Lola came to our house one early morning. She walked in so quietly we didn’t even hear her. I woke up to the sound of footsteps—someone moving around the house, just like Mama used to—and in the kitchen, I heard the clatter of dishes. And the smell! Someone was making pancakes.
My sister and I peeked through a crack in the door. Lola was moving silently, washing dishes, scrubbing the floor. Eventually, she noticed we were awake.
— Come on, blondies, breakfast’s ready!
We were surprised she called us “blondies.” My sister and I had blonde hair and blue eyes, just like our mother.
We gathered our courage and stepped out of the room.
— Sit down at the table!
She didn’t have to ask twice. We devoured the pancakes and began to trust her.
— You can call me Aunt Lola.
Later, Aunt Lola bathed Verita and me, washed our clothes, and left. The next day we waited—and she came back. The house slowly transformed under her care. It was clean again, tidy, almost like it had been when our mother was alive.
Three weeks passed, and my father still hadn’t returned from the forest. Aunt Lola took care of us better than we ever could’ve imagined, but she seemed distant, as if she didn’t want us to grow too attached. Verita, especially, clung to her. She was only three. I was more cautious. Aunt Lola was strict, serious. Our mother had been cheerful, loved to sing and dance, and called our father “Juanito.”
— When your father comes back, maybe he won’t want me here. What’s he like?
I began describing him awkwardly and almost ruined everything.
— He’s really nice! Very calm! When he drinks, he just falls asleep.
Aunt Lola’s eyes widened.
— He drinks a lot?
— Yes! — Verita chimed in, and I kicked her under the table and added quickly:
— No, only at parties.
That night, Lola left more at ease. My father came home later that afternoon. He stepped inside, looked around the house and said:
— I thought you’d be struggling. But you’re living like little princesses.
We told him everything we could. He sat down, thoughtful, and finally said:
— Well, I should meet this woman who’s been running my house. What’s she like?
— She’s beautiful! — Verita blurted out. — She makes pancakes and tells us stories.
Looking back now, I always laugh at that part. Lola wasn’t beautiful, not by conventional standards. She was thin, petite, plain—not someone you’d call stunning. But what do kids know about appearances? Or maybe they’re the only ones who truly understand where beauty really lies.
My father laughed, got dressed, and went to visit her at Aunt Maruja’s house down the road.
The next day, my father brought her home himself. He woke up early to go get her, and Lola stepped into the house just as shy and hesitant as before.
I turned to Verita and whispered:
— Let’s call her “Mama.” This one’s good.
And we both shouted together:
— Mama! Mama’s here!
My father and Lola went together to bring Olguita back. For her, Lola became a real mother. She cared for her as if she were made of gold. Olguita didn’t remember our real mom. Verita had already started to forget. But I remembered her—and my father did too. Once, I overheard him staring at a photo of my mother and whispering:
— Why did you leave so soon? You left and took all my joy with you.
I didn’t live long with my father and stepmother. Starting in fourth grade, I went to boarding schools—our village didn’t have a big school. After seventh grade, I entered a technical school. I always wanted to leave home early—why? Lola never hurt me. She cared for me like a real daughter. But I kept my distance. Am I ungrateful?
Maybe it’s no coincidence that I became a midwife. I can’t go back in time and save my mother—but I can save others.