My mother had two daughters and was about to give birth to a third. I vividly recall my mother’s screaming, the neighbors’ wailing, and the subsequent silence.
To this day, I’m not sure why no one phoned a doctor. Why didn’t they transport her to the hospital? Was the village too remote? Were the roads blocked? I never received any answers. My mother died during childbirth, leaving behind two tiny children and a newborn infant named Olguita.
My father was totally lost. We had no family around. Nobody was there to assist Dad in caring for us. Out of pity, his neighbors recommended him to remarry as quickly as possible.
They suggested a local schoolteacher, saying she was a kind and decent woman.
That same afternoon, he came home with his fiancée.
— “I brought you a new mommy!” — he announced happily.
I don’t know what that woman thought of us. She entered the house holding my father’s arm. They had been drinking a bit, and she said:
— “If you call me mommy, I’ll stay.”
I muttered to my little sister:
— “She’s not our mom. Our mom passed away. Don’t call her that.”
My sister began to cry, and I, as the eldest, stepped forward:
— “No, we won’t do that! You’re not our mother — you’re a stranger!”
— “What a pair of rude girls! Then I won’t stay,” she replied.
The woman went out the door. That was the first and only time I witnessed my father cry.
He stayed with us for two additional weeks. He worked for a lumber company and had to accompany the team to the forest. Before starting work, he made plans: he paid one neighbor to cook for us and placed Olguita in the care of another. Then he departed.
We were alone. The neighbor came and cooked something. She was responsible for her own life. We spent our days cold, hungry, and terrified.
The village began to consider how it could support us.
Someone eventually recalled a neighbor’s distant relative, a young woman whose husband had abandoned her because she was unable to produce children. Perhaps she had lost a baby and would never have another. They obtained her address, wrote a letter, and then contacted Lola via Aunt Maruja.
My father was still away when Lola showed up at our house early one morning. She entered so silently that we didn’t notice. In the kitchen, plates were clinking… And that smell! Somebody was making pancakes!
My sister and I peeked through a crack in the door. Lola was quietly washing dishes, scrubbing the floor. She called out:
— “Come on, blondies, time to eat!”
We were amazed she called us that.
— “Sit down at the table!”
We didn’t need to be told twice. We demolished the pancakes and started to trust her.
— “You can call me Aunt Lola,” she said.
Later, Aunt Lola bathed us, washed our clothes, and left. The next day, we waited — and she came back. The house began to transform.
Aunt Lola cared for us with devotion, but she kept a slight emotional distance, as if afraid we might grow too attached.
— “When your father comes back from the forest, he may not accept me. What is he like?” — she asked.
I tried to describe him, but almost destr0yed everything:
— “He’s very kind! Very calm! When he drinks, he just falls asleep.”
— “Does he drink a lot?” — she asked.
— “Yes!” — Verita uttered.
— “No, only at parties.”
That afternoon, our father came back home. When he walked into the house, he looked around, amazed:
— “I thought you’d be excruciating, but you’re living like princesses!”
We told him everything. He sat, thoughtful, and then said:
— “Well, I’ll go meet this new lady of the house. What’s she like?”
— “She’s really beautiful!” —
– “She makes pancakes and tells us stories!”
My father smiled, dressed, and headed to Aunt Maruja’s place.
The following morning, he went to get Lola himself. She arrived hesitantly, as if worried about something. I informed Verita:
– “Let us call her mom. “She is a good one.”
We both yelled together.
— “Mom! Mom’s here!”
My father and Lola traveled together to pick up Olguita. Lola became a true mother figure to her. She looked after her as if she was made of gold. Olguita had no remembrance of our real mother. Verita eventually forgot about her as well. But I never did. Neither did my father.
I once caught him looking at a photo of my mother and buzzing:
– “Why did you leave so quickly?” “You took all my joy with you.”
I didn’t have much time with my father and stepmother. I was sent to boarding school beginning in fourth grade since our hamlet lacked adequate educational facilities. After seventh grade, I attended a technical school. I’ve always wanted to leave home early. Why? Lola never harmed me. She treated me like a daughter. Still, I maintained my distance. Was I ungrateful?
