My dad never approved of my mom’s interest in painting. He believed that women should only be responsible for cleaning and cooking. But what I witnessed in her new home after their divorce really startled me.
I never imagined I’d be happy that my parents broke up, but life can be weird. Iva, I’m 25 years old, and what I found in my mom’s new house made me cry. It also made me contemplate love from a whole new perspective.
I recall hearing brushes on canvas and smelling paint in the house when I was a kid. My mom, Florence, had a rare talent: she could make beautiful paintings.
But Benjamin, my dad, didn’t think that way. He believed that her painting was a waste of time.
“Florence!” He would yell as he left the kitchen, “When will you finish that stupid painting?” “You haven’t even started dinner yet, and this house is a mess!”
Mom would stop, but she kept painting. “Ben, just a few more minutes.” This part is almost done.
Dad would stomp into her tiny art area and shake his head. “Your silly hobby!” Why can’t you behave like a good wife?
I was just ten years old and often stood in the corridor. I didn’t understand why my mom looked downcast when she saw me.
She would softly ask, “Iva, sweetie, can you please help me set the table?”
I’d nod and leave, trying to avoid their arguing voices.
The clashes got worse and worse. They finally got a divorce when I reached fourteen. I lived with Dad and only saw Mom on the weekends.
When I first saw her new house, I was surprised. It was small. There was just enough room for a bed and a little easel in the corner.
She held me close. She laughed and said, “Don’t be so upset, sweetie.” “It’s not big, but I can do a lot with it.”
I attempted to smile back. “Mom, do you miss us?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Iva, every day.” But there are moments when we have to decide what makes us happy.
When I left that day, I heard her humming as she took her paints out of the box. I hadn’t heard the sound in years.
I said, “I’ll see you next weekend.”
She said, “Yes, sweetie!”
Dad got over it immediately. Karen, his new wife, was clean, sensible, and not at all creative, just like his mother always wanted her to be.
“Do you see, Iva?” Dad once remarked on this when showing me their clean kitchen. “This is how a real home should look.”
I gazed at the walls that used to have Mom’s paintings on them. “It’s nice, Dad.”
Karen smiled. “I’ve been showing Iva how to clean the right way.” Haven’t I, sweetheart?
I nodded and thought of how I used to paint with Mom on the weekends. “Yes, it has helped.” “Thanks, Karen.”
Dad smiled. “That’s my girl.” Who wants to see TV?
But deep down, I longed for those nights when there was color and joy.
I got acclimated to the schedule over time: weekdays with Dad and Karen and weekends with Mom. But there was always something that felt off.
Dad knocked on my door one Friday night when I was getting ready for my trip.
“Can we talk, Iva?”
I looked up. “Of course. What’s going on?
He seemed a little on edge. “Your mom called.” She’s getting married again.
The news made my heart race. “Are you married?” To whom?
“A man named John.” It looks like they’ve been dating for a while.
I sat down, shocked. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
Dad shrugged. “You know how your mom is.” She was always in her own world.
I didn’t like the way he talked, but I stayed quiet since I was curious about how his words might impact everything.
When I got to Mom’s apartment, she looked amazing.
“Iva! She hugged me hard and exclaimed, “I missed you!” The smell of lavender and oil paint brought back so many memories.
John came out from behind her. “So this is Iva, the famous one!” Your mother talks about you a lot.
While we were talking, I noticed that Mom laughed more and stood up straighter. I hadn’t seen that light in her eyes in years.
She inquired, “How’s school going?” as she gave me a cup of tea.
“It’s good.” There’s a lot going on, but everything’s fine. I stopped and looked at her. “Why didn’t you say anything about John?”
She looked down. “I was scared.” I didn’t want you to think I was taking your father’s place.
I reached out and took her hand. “I just want you to be happy, Mom.”
With tears in her eyes, she held my hand tightly. “I am, Iva.” I really am.
“Iva, come with me,” John said next. Let me show you something.
He took me down a hallway to a door that was closed. He smiled and said, “Are you ready?”
I gasped when he opened the door.
It looked like a gallery of art.
Mom’s paintings were on every wall, nicely framed and lighted. There were sculptures on shelves and easels showing her works in progress.
“She did all of this?” I said very quietly.
John nodded. “I made this room into her art studio. We call it her “art hub.”
Mom came up behind us. “John even helps me put on small shows here. He also developed a webpage to show off my work. He takes care of the business aspect, so I can focus on making things.
I couldn’t say anything. “Mom, this is amazing.”
John beamed with pride. “Your mom is really good at what she does.” I just let her shine.
I strolled around carefully, taking it all in. There were abstract pieces, portraits, and images from our former neighborhood in her paintings.
“Do you remember this one?” she inquired, pointing to a little picture in the corner.
I moved in closer. It was myself as a kid, sitting at the old kitchen table and coloring. Everything about me was wonderful, from my unkempt hair to the crayon on my cheeks to the way I looked focused.
“Did you paint this?” I asked.
She agreed. “Right after the divorce.” I was thinking of better days.
I hugged her tightly. “Mom, I’m so proud of you.”
Being in that vibrant room brought up many memories. I reflected on all the years when others either overlooked her talent or spoke negatively about it. But now she was surrounded by love and art.
John said softly, “She was afraid to show me her work when we first met.”
Mom chuckled softly. “I thought he would think it was dumb.”
“Stupid?” John looked at her as if she were enchanted. “Flo, I love your art. It’s a part of you.”
I could see how they were looking at each other. I recognized that this was what real love looked like.
I said softly, “I’m so happy for you, Mom,” with tears in my eyes.
She gave me a big hug. “And I’m happy too, Iva.” Happier than I’ve been in years.
As we stood in the middle of her exquisite works of art, I realized something deep: Mom’s art, which had been buried and not acknowledged, was suddenly shining. And she was too.
John clapped. “So! Who’s hungry? I thought we could cook something on the terrace.
Mom’s eyes brightened up. “That sounds great.” Iva, will you eat with us?
I stared at them with a full heart. “I’d love to.” Really.
I looked at her art one last time before we exited the room. There were more than just artworks in the room. It was a place full of love, healing, and power.
And for the first time in a long time, I really felt at home.