My father always despised my mother’s painting fixation, feeling she was only fit to cook and clean. After their divorce, I walked into her new home and saw something that took my breath away. I never expected to be grateful for my parents’ divorce, but life has a way of surprising you. I am Iva, 25 years old. My visit to my mother’s new home after the split shifted my perspective on true love, causing me to cry.
Dad’s voice would reverberate from the kitchen. “This place is a pigsty, and dinner’s not even started!” Mom’s shoulders tensed, but her brush continued to move. “Only a few more minutes, Ben. I am almost finished with this section.”Dad would stomp into her workspace, his face flushed. “You and your silly hobby!” “When are you going to grow up and behave like a REAL WIFE?”I’d watch from the doorway, my heart racing. Mom’s eyes would meet mine, filled with a melancholy that I couldn’t understand as a ten-year-old.
“Iva, honey, why don’t you go set the table?” she would ask quietly. I’d nod and dash away, the sound of their quarrel following me down the corridor. Years passed, and the fights only grew worse. When I was fourteen, they called it quits. Dad received custody, and I only saw Mom on weekends.
My heart sank when I first saw her new home. It was cramped, with only a bed and a little easel in one corner. “Oh, sweetie, don’t look so sad,” Mom said, pulling me in for a hug. “This place may be small, but it’s full of possibilities.” I tried smiling, but it felt forced. “Do you miss us, Mom?” Her eyes glistened. “Every day, Iva.” But sometimes we have to make difficult decisions in order to achieve happiness.”
My heart sunk when I initially saw her new residence. It was cramped, with only enough room for a bed and a little easel in the corner. “Oh, sweetie, don’t look so sad,” Mom said, bringing me in for a hug. “This place may be small, but it’s full of possibilities.” I attempted to smile, but it felt forced. “Do you miss us, Mom?” Her eyes glistened. “Everyday, Iva. But sometimes we have to make difficult decisions to obtain happiness.”
As I left that day, I could hear her humming as she unpacked her paints. It was a sound that I hadn’t heard in years.”I’ll see you next weekend, okay?” Mom shouted out as I approached the door. I turned back, feigning a smile. “Yes, Mom.” “Next weekend.” Dad did not waste any time moving on. Karen, his new wife, was everything he wanted Mom to be: orderly, sensible, and absolutely unartistic. “See, Iva?” “This is how a real household should function,” Dad commented one evening, waving around the pristine kitchen. I nodded absently, my gaze attracted to the mostly blank walls where Mom’s paintings once hung. “It’s… nice, Dad.”
Karen beams. “I’ve been teaching Iva some great cleaning tips, haven’t I, dear?” I faked a smile, recalling weekends spent with Mom, hands covered in paint, building worlds on canvas. “Yes, it’s extremely useful.” Thank you, Karen. Dad clasped his hands together. “That is my girl.” Now, who wants to watch some television?” As we settled into the living room, I couldn’t help but feel nostalgic for the untidy, colorful evenings of my childhood.The years passed, and I grew accustomed to the new normal. Weekdays with Dad and Karen in their spotless home, and weekends with Mom in her small apartment. But something was always missing.
One Friday evening, as I was packed for my weekend trip, Dad knocked on my door. “Iva, honey, can we talk?” I looked up with amazement. “Okay, Dad. “What’s up?” He perched on the edge of my bed, visibly uncomfortable. “Your mom called. “She’s getting married again. My heart skips a beat. “Married? “To whom?” “A guy named John. They appear to have been dating for quite some time. I sat down firmly, my mind whirling. “Why didn’t she tell me?” Dad shrugged. “You know your mother. Always in her own little universe.” I bristled at his tone but didn’t say anything. As he exited the room, I looked at my half-packed luggage, wondering what this meant for our weekend together.
Fast forward to last weekend. Mom and I hadn’t seen each other in months due to college and employment commitments. But now here I was, driving up to her new house, my stomach churning with nervousness. What if this John guy was simply another version of Dad? Mom greeted me at the entrance, almost glowing. “Iva! “Oh, I have missed you!” She hugged me tightly, smelling of lavender and linseed oil, which quickly transported me back to childhood. John arrived behind her with a pleasant smile on his face. “So, this is the legendary Iva! Your mom has told me so much about you.”We talked for a while, and I couldn’t help but observe that Mom appeared to stand higher and laugh more easily.
There was a sparkle in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in years. “How’s college going?” Mom asked while making me a cup of tea. “It is good. I replied, “Busy, but good,” keeping a tight eye on her. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me about John earlier?” She looked down, a slight blush on her cheeks. “Oh, honey. “I wanted to, but… “I suppose I was scared.””Scared? “Of what?” “That you would not approve. That you would mistake me for your father.” I stretched out to take her hand. “Mom, all I want is for you to be happy.” She squeezed my hand, her eyes bright. “I am Iva. “I really am.” “Iva,” John began quickly, “I have something I’d like to show you. “Follow me.” I was curious, so I followed John down a hallway.
He paused at a closed door, his hand on the handle. “Your Mom’s been working on something special,” he remarked, smiling. “Ready?” He swung the door open, and as I entered, my jaw dropped. The room was a gallery. Mom’s Gallery. Her paintings adorned every wall, neatly framed and illuminated. Easels held works in progress, and there were even a few sculptures of porcelain dolls sprinkled about. “John converted this room for me,” Mom murmured quietly from behind me. “He calls it my ‘creativity hub’.”I turned to her, speechless. She looked radiant. John slipped his arm around her waist. “Occasionally, I organize shows here. Invite friends, family, and local art enthusiasts.
Florence’s art deserved to be noticed.”Mom flushed. “John even created a website to sell my artwork. He handles all of the business aspects so I can concentrate on painting and sculpting.”Tears prickled in my eyes. “Mom, this is… amazing.” “Your Mom’s talent is extraordinary,” John exclaimed, his voice filled with pride. “I just wanted to give her a space where she could really shine.” I moved around the room, admiring each piece. There were landscapes familiar from our old neighborhood, portraits of people I’d never met, and abstract compositions that seemed to throb with passion. “Do you remember this one?” Mom inquired, pointing at a little painting in the corner.
I leaned in, catching my breath. It was a painting of myself as a little child coloring at our old kitchen table. My tangled pigtails, the crayon smudges on my cheeks, the intense focus on my face—every detail was flawless. “You painted this?” I whispered. Mom nodded. “This is one of my favorites. I painted it after the divorce. “It made me think of happier times.” I hugged her right there, overtaken with emotion. “I’m so proud of you, Mom.”As we stood there, surrounded by my mother’s artwork, memories flooding back. Dad’s harsh voice, Mom’s hushed sighs, the stress that had pervaded our home for so long.
And now this. A space full of light, color, and love. “You know,” John remarked softly, “when I first met your mother, she was very hesitant to show me her work. “Can you believe it?” Mom laughed gently. “I was scared you’d think it was silly.” “Silly?” John looked at her as if she had hung the moon. “Flo, your art is what led me to fall in love with you. It is a part of who you are. I observed how they looked at each other and how simple their affection was. This is what love was intended to look like. “I’m so happy for you, Mom,” I said softly, tears welling up in my eyes.
Mom drew me into a hug, her arms firm and steady. “Oh, Sweetie. I’m also happy. “I am happier than I have been in a long time.” As we stood there, surrounded by colorful and vibrant canvases, I had a startling realization. Mom’s work, which had previously been suppressed and undervalued, was now flourishing, as did she. And I knew she’d discovered her true love. As we stood there, surrounded by my mother’s artwork, memories flooding back.
Dad’s harsh voice, Mom’s hushed sighs, the stress that had pervaded our home for so long. And now this. A space full of light, color, and love. “You know,” John remarked softly, “when I first met your mother, she was very hesitant to show me her work. “Can you believe it?” Mom laughed gently. “I was scared you’d think it was silly.” “Silly?” John looked at her as if she had hung the moon. “Flo, your art is what led me to fall in love with you.
It is a part of who you are. I observed how they looked at each other and how simple their affection was. This is what love was intended to look like. “I’m so happy for you, Mom,” I said softly, tears welling up in my eyes. Mom drew me into a hug, her arms firm and steady. “Oh, Sweetie. I’m also happy. “I am happier than I have been in a long time.” As we stood there, surrounded by colorful and vibrant canvases, I had a startling realization.
Mom’s work, which had previously been suppressed and undervalued, was now flourishing, as did she. And I knew she’d discovered her true love.”So,” John replied, clapping his palms together. “Who is hungry?” “I was thinking we could grill on the patio.” Mom’s eyes brightened up. “Oh, that sounds great! “Iva, will you stay for dinner?” I gazed at them both and felt a warm sensation run through my chest. “I’d love to,” I replied, smiling. “I’d really love to.” As we walked out of the gallery, I took one more look around. The space was more than just a showcase of Mom’s abilities. It demonstrated how genuine love can nurture and uplift. And when I followed Mom and John into the kitchen, smiling at a joke he had made, I felt completely at home for the first time in years.
