My dad never liked that my mom liked to paint. He thought that women should exclusively be in charge of cooking and cleaning. But what I saw in her new home after their divorce really shocked me.
I never thought I’d be thrilled that my parents split up, but life can be strange. Iva, I’m 25 years old, and what I found in my mom’s new house made me cry. It also helped me think about love in a whole new way.
When I was a kid, I remember hearing brushes on canvas and smelled paint in the house. My mom, Florence, was really talented. She could paint beautiful pictures.
But my dad, Benjamin, didn’t agree. He thought her painting was a waste of time.
“Florence!” As he left the kitchen, he would exclaim, “When are you going to finish that dumb painting?” “This house is a mess, and you haven’t even started dinner yet!”
Mom would stop, but she continued going. “Ben, just a few more minutes.” Almost done with this phase.
Dad would stomp into her small art space and shake his head. “Your silly hobby!” Why can’t you act like a good wife?
I was just 10 years old and spent a lot of time in the hallway. I didn’t get why my mom looked sad when she saw me.
“Iva, sweetie, can you please help me set the table?” she would say quietly.
I would nod and go, attempting to get away from their bickering.
The fights got worse and worse. When I turned fourteen, they eventually split up. I lived with Dad and only saw Mom on the weekends.
I was startled when I saw her new house for the first time. It was tiny. In the corner, there was just enough room for a bed and a small easel.
She hugged me tightly. “Don’t be so upset, sweetie,” she added with a giggle. “It’s not big, but I can use it a lot.”
I tried to smile back. “Do you miss us, Mom?”
Her eyes shone. “Iva, every day.” But there are times when we have to choose what makes us happy.
I heard her humming as she grabbed her paints out of the box when I left that day. I hadn’t heard the sound in a long time.
I told them, “I’ll see you next weekend.”
She answered, “Yes, honey!”
Dad got over it right away. Karen, his new wife, was neat, smart, and not at all creative, just how his mother always wanted her to be.
“Do you see, Iva?” Dad once said something about this when he showed me their immaculate kitchen. “This is what a real home should look like.”
I looked at the walls where Mom used to hang her paintings. “It’s nice, Dad.”
Karen smiled. “I’ve been teaching Iva how to clean the right way.” Haven’t I, my love?
I nodded and thought of how I used to paint with my mom on the weekends. “Yes, it has helped.” “Thanks, Karen.”
Dad smiled. “That’s my girl.” Who wants to watch TV?
But I really wanted those nights when there was color and happiness.
I grew used to the schedule over time: weekdays with Dad and Karen and weekends with Mom. But things always felt wrong.
Dad knocked on my door one Friday night while I was getting ready to leave.
“Can we talk, Iva?”
I looked up. “Of course. What’s happening?
He looked a little nervous. “Mom called.” Again, she’s getting married.
The news made my heart race. “Are you married?” To whom?
“A guy named John.” They seem to have been going out for a while.
I was stunned and sat down. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
Dad didn’t care. “You know how your mom is.” She was always in her own head.
I didn’t like the way he talked, but I didn’t say anything because I wanted to see how his comments would affect things.
Mom looked great when I got to her apartment.
“Iva! She hugged me tightly and said, “I missed you!” The scent of lavender and oil paint brought back a lot of memories.
John came out from behind her. “This is Iva, the famous one!” A lot of times, your mom talks about you.
I saw that Mom laughed more and stood up straighter as we were talking. It had been years since I’d seen that light in her eyes.
She asked, “How is school going?” while she poured me a cup of tea.
“It’s good.” A lot is going on, but everything is OK. I paused and stared 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 dad’s place.
I reached out and grabbed her hand. “Mom, I just want you to be happy.”
She held my hand tightly and cried. “Yes, I am.” I really am.
Next, John said, “Iva, come with me.” I want to show you something.
He led me down a hallway to a door that was shut. “Are you ready?” he asked with a smile.
When he opened the door, I gasped.
It looked like an art gallery.
All of the walls had mom’s paintings on them, and they were well-lit and framed. There were sculptures on shelves and easels that showed her works in progress.
“Did she do all of this?” I said it very quietly.
John nodded. “I turned this room into her art studio. We call it her “art hub.”
Mom came up behind us. “John even helps me put together little shows here. He also made a website to show off my work. He handles the business side of things, so I can focus on making stuff.
I couldn’t say anything. “Wow, Mom, this is great.”
John smiled with pride. “Your mom is really good at her job.” I just let her do her thing.
I walked around slowly, taking it all in. Her paintings were abstract shapes, portraits, and pictures of our old neighborhood.
“Do you remember this one?” she asked, pointing to a small picture in the corner.
I got closer. It was me as a child, sitting at the old kitchen table and coloring. My hair was messy, there was crayon on my face, and I looked attentive. Everything about me was great.
“Did you paint this?” I inquired.
She said yes. “Right after the divorce.” I was thinking of happier times.
I held her close. “Mom, I’m so proud of you.”
That bright room made me think of a lot of things. I thought about all the years when others either didn’t notice her talent or spoke bad things about it. But now she was surrounded by art and affection.
John said in a hushed voice, “When we first met, she was scared to show me her work.”
Mom laughed quietly. “I thought he would think it was stupid.”
“Stupid?” John looked at her like she was under a spell. “Flo, I love your work.” It’s a part of you.
I could tell how they were looking at each other. I knew this was what real love looked like.
With tears in my eyes, I murmured softly, “I’m so happy for you, Mom.”
She hugged me tightly. “And I’m glad too, Iva.” I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.
Standing in the middle of her beautiful art, I realized something deep: Mom’s art, which had been hidden and not recognized, was suddenly gleaming. And she was too.
John clapped his hands. “So! Who’s hungry? I thought we could make something to eat on the patio.
Mom’s eyes lit up. “That sounds great.” Iva, do you want to eat with us?
I looked at them with a full heart. “I’d love to.” Really.
Before we left the room, I took one last glance at her art. The space has more than simply paintings in it. It was a sanctuary full of love, healing, and strength.
And for the first time in a long time, I genuinely felt like I belonged.
