My father always hated my mother’s obsession with painting, thinking she was only good at cooking and cleaning. After their divorce, I walked into her new house and discovered something that took my breath away.
I never thought I would be grateful for my parents’ divorce, but life has a way of surprising you. My name is Iva, I am 25 years old. What I found in my mother’s new house after the separation completely changed my view of what true love really looks like and made me cry…
Growing up, our home was filled with the smell of oil paints and the sound of brushes scratching canvas. My mother, Florence, was always creating something beautiful.
But to my father, Benjamin, it was just noise and chaos.
“Florence! When are you going to finish this damn painting?” Dad’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “This place is a pigsty, and dinner hasn’t even started yet!”
Side view of a woman painting a picture | Source: Pexels
Mom’s shoulders tensed, but her brush kept moving. “Just a few more minutes, Ben. I’m almost done with this section.”
Dad walked into her workspace, his face red. “You and your stupid hobby! When are you going to grow up and act like a REAL WOMAN?”
I watched from the doorway, my heart pounding. Mom’s eyes met mine, filled with a sadness I couldn’t understand at ten years old.
“Iva, darling, why don’t you go set the table?” she said softly.
I nodded and ran away, the sound of their argument following me down the hallway.
As the years went by, the arguments only got worse. When I was fourteen, they finally broke up. Dad got custody and I only saw Mom on weekends.
Her eyes were shining. “Every day, Iva. But sometimes we have to make difficult choices to find happiness.”
As I was leaving that day, I heard her humming as she unpacked her paints. It was a sound I hadn’t heard in years.
“I’ll see you next weekend, okay?” Mom called as I reached the door.
I turned around, forcing a smile. “Yeah, Mom. Next weekend.”
Dad wasted no time in moving on. His new wife, Karen, was everything he wanted Mom to be: organized, practical, and completely devoid of an artistic spirit.
“See, Iva? This is how a real household should work,” Dad said one evening, gesturing toward the spotless kitchen.
I nodded absently, my eyes drawn to the nearly bare walls where Mom’s paintings hung. “It’s… pretty, Dad.”
Karen beamed. “I taught Iva some great cleaning tips, didn’t I, dear?”
I forced a smile as I thought of weekends spent with Mom, hands covered in paint, creating worlds on canvas. “Yes, that’s…really helpful. Thanks, Karen.”
Dad cheered. “That’s my daughter. Now who wants to watch TV?”
As we settled into the living room, I couldn’t help but feel a pang in my heart, nostalgic for the messy, colorful evenings of my childhood.
As the years went by, I got used to the new normal. Weekdays with Dad and Karen in their immaculate house and weekends with Mom in her cramped apartment. But there was always something missing.
One Friday evening, as I was packing for my weekend visit, Dad knocked on my door.
“Iva, honey, can we talk?”
I looked up, surprised. “Sure, Dad. What’s up?”
He sat on the edge of my bed, looking uncomfortable. “Your mother called. She… she’s getting remarried.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Married? To whom?”
“A guy named John. They’ve been dating for a while, apparently.”
I sat up hard, my mind racing. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
Dad shrugged. “You know your mother. She still lives in her own little world.”
His tone made me cringe, but I said nothing. As he left the room, I stared at my half-packed bag, wondering what this would mean for our weekends together.
Fast forward to last weekend. I hadn’t seen Mom in months, busy with college and work. But now, here I was, arriving at her new house, my stomach in knots with nervousness.
What if this John was just another version of Dad?
Mom greeted me at the door, almost beaming. “Iva! Oh, I missed you!” She hugged me tightly, smelling of lavender and linseed oil, a scent that instantly took me back to my childhood.
John appeared behind her, a warm smile on his face. “So this is the famous Iva! Your mother has told me so much about you.”
We talked for a while, and I couldn’t help but notice that Mom seemed to stand up straighter and laugh more easily. There was a sparkle in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in years.
“How’s college going?” Mom asked, pouring me a cup of tea.
“That’s good. Busy, but good,” I replied, looking at her intently. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me about John sooner?”
She looked down, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “Oh, honey. I wanted to, but… I guess I was scared.”
“Afraid? Of what?”
“That you wouldn’t approve. That you think I’m replacing your father.”
I reached out and took her hand. “Mom, all I want is for you to be happy.”
She squeezed my hand, her eyes shining. “I am, Iva. I really am.”
“Iva,” John said suddenly, “there’s something I’d like to show you. Follow me.”
Curious, I followed John down a hallway. He stopped in front of a closed door, his hand on the handle. “Your mother is working on something special,” he said, smiling. “Ready?”
He opened the door and when I stepped inside I was speechless.
The room was a gallery. Mom’s gallery.
Her paintings covered every wall, beautifully framed and lit. Easels displayed works in progress and there were even a few porcelain doll sculptures scattered throughout.
“John set up this room for me,” Mom says quietly behind me. “He calls it my ‘creativity center.’”
I turned to her, speechless. She looked… radiant.
John wrapped an arm around her waist. “I sometimes hold exhibitions here. I invite friends, family, local art lovers. Florence’s work is worth seeing.”
Mom blushed. “John even created a website to sell my paintings. He takes care of all the commercial work so I can focus on painting and sculpting.”
I felt tears prick my eyes. “Mom, this is… incredible.”
“Your mother’s talent is extraordinary,” John said, his voice full of pride. “I just wanted to give her a space where she could really shine.”
I walked around the room, admiring each piece. There were landscapes I recognized from our old neighborhood, portraits of people I’d never met, and abstract works that seemed to pulse with emotion.
“Do you remember this one?” Mom asked, pointing to a small canvas in the corner.
I leaned forward, gasping for air. It was a painting of me as a little girl, sitting at our old kitchen table, coloring. The details were perfect: my messy braids, the pencil marks on my cheeks, the look of intense concentration on my face.
“You painted that?” I whispered.
Mom nodded. “It’s one of my favorites. I painted it right after… well, after the divorce. It reminded me of happier times.”
I hugged her at that moment, overcome with emotion. “I’m so proud of you, Mom.”
As we stood there, surrounded by my mother’s artwork, memories came flooding back. Dad’s angry voice, Mom’s quiet sighs, the tension that had filled our home for so long.
And now this. A room filled with light and color…and love.
“You know,” John said softly, “when I first met your mother, she was so hesitant to show me her work. Can you believe it?”
Mom laughed softly. “I was afraid you’d think it was silly.”
“Idiot?” John looked at her like she had reached for the moon. “Flo, it’s your art that made me fall in love with you. It’s a part of who you are.”
I looked at them, the way they looked at each other, the easy affection between them. This was what love was supposed to look like.
“I’m so happy for you, Mom,” I whispered, tears in my eyes.
Mommy took me in her arms, her arms strong and sure. “Oh, honey. I’m happy too. Happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.”
As we stood there, surrounded by canvases bursting with color and life, I realized something profound. Mom’s art, once stifled and underappreciated, was now thriving, and so was she. And I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she had found her true love.
“So,” John said, clapping his hands. “Who’s hungry? I was thinking we could have a barbecue on the patio.”
Mom’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that looks wonderful! Iva, do you want to stay for dinner?”
I looked at the two of them, feeling warmth spread through my chest. “I’d love to,” I said, smiling. “I really would.”
As I left the gallery, I took one last look around. The room was more than just a showcase of Mom’s talent. It was a testament to the power of love… true love… to nurture and uplift.
And as I followed Mom and John into the kitchen, laughing at a joke he’d made, I felt truly at home for the first time in years.