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Father Got Mad When Mom Painted Instead of Doing Chores – What I Saw in Her House after the Divorce Made Me Gasp
My father detested my mother’s painting habit and thought she was only suitable for housework and cooking. When I moved into her new house after their divorce, I was astounded by what I saw.
I never imagined that I would be happy about my parents’ divorce, but you never know what to expect in life. My name is Iva, and I’m 25. What I discovered in my mother’s new house following the breakup made me cry and radically altered my understanding of what true love actually looks like.
The sound of brushes scraping against canvas and the scent of oil paint filled our home as children. Florence, my mother, could always make something lovely.
Benjamin, my dad, though, saw only chaos and noise.
“Florence! When will you finish that fucking painting?” Dad would come booming out of the kitchen. “This place is a pigsty, and dinner’s not even started!”
Mom would get rigid in her shoulders, but her brush would not quit. Ben, give me a couple more minutes. This part is almost done with me.”
Dad would storm into her office, furrowing his brow. “You and your absurd pastime! When will you mature and behave like a TRUE WIFE?”
As I stood in the doorway, my heart would race. Mom’s eyes would meet mine, ten years old and full of a sadness I could not begin to understand.
“Iva, honey, why don’t you go set the table?” Gently, she would say.
I would nod and duck out of sight, their dispute echoing in the hallway behind me.
As the years went by, the disagreements grew more heated. They ended things finally when I was fourteen. Dad was given custody, and I visited Mom only on the weekends.
My heart fell as I saw her new abode for the first time. It was little, just big enough for a bed and a little easel tucked into the corner.
Mom pulled me into an embrace and whispered, “Oh, sweetie, don’t look so sad.” “This place may be small, but it’s full of possibilities.”
I felt compelled to smile, but it was awkward. “Do you miss us, Mom?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Iva, every day. But in order to be happy, we occasionally have to make difficult decisions.”
She was unpacking her paints when I heard her humming as I drove away that day. I had not heard the sound in years.
“I’ll see you next weekend, okay?” I got to the door just as Mom yelled out.
I forced a smile as I turned around. “Yes, Mom. The following weekend.”
Dad moved forward without any delay. Karen, his new wife, was orderly, pragmatic, and utterly uncreative—everything he had hoped Mom would be.
“You see, Iva? One night, Dad was pointing around the immaculate kitchen and saying, “This is how a real household should run.”
I nodded absently, my gaze falling on the almost empty walls that had formerly held Mom’s paintings. “It’s… nice, Dad.”
Karen smiled. “I’ve been teaching Iva some great cleaning tips, haven’t I, dear?”
I faked a smile, remembering the paint-covered weekends spent creating worlds on canvas with Mom. Yes, it’s quite helpful. Regards, Karen.
Dad gave a clap of his hands. “That’s my girl.” Who wants to watch TV now?”
I couldn’t help but get homesick for the chaotic, colorful evenings of my childhood as we settled into the living room.
As the years passed, I adapted to the new normal. Weekends spent with Mom in her tiny apartment and weekdays spent with Dad and Karen in their spotless home. But there was always a gap.
When Dad knocked on my door one Friday evening, I was getting ready for my weekend stay.
“Iva, honey, can we talk?”
Startled, I looked up. Yes, Dad. What’s going on?”
Seated on my bed’s edge, he appeared uneasy. “Your mother gave a call. She is getting married once more.”
A beat skipped in my heart. “Wed? To whom?”
“John, the person. It appears that they have been dating for a while.”
I took a deep seat, my head spinning. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
Dad shook his head. “You are familiar with your mother. Living in her own little world all the time.”
His tone made me tense, but I remained silent. I looked at my partially packed luggage as he was leaving the room, wondering how this would affect our weekends spent together.
Let’s go back to last weekend. Mom had not been seen in months due to work and college commitments. But here I was, my anxieties swirling in my gut, driving up to her new home.
What if this John person was really just Dad on steroids?
Mom looked almost radiant as she greeted me at the door. “Iva! I’ve missed you, I see. She gave me a tight hug and smelled strongly of linseed oil and lavender, which instantly transported me back to my early years.
John emerged from behind her, wearing a cozy smile. Thus, this is the well-known Iva! I’ve heard so much about you from your mother.”
After we had been talking for a time, I couldn’t help but observe that Mom appeared to laugh more readily and stand higher. I hadn’t seen that kind of spark in her eyes in years.
“How’s college going?” Pouring me a cup of tea, Mom enquired.
It’s excellent. Busy, but good,” I shot back, observing her intently. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me about John earlier?”
She glanced down, her cheeks slightly flushed. “Ah, sweetheart. I suppose I was afraid, even though I wanted to.”
“Afraid? Of what?”
“That you’d find unacceptable. that you would believe my father had been replaced.”
I extended my hand to grab hers. “Mom, all I want is for you to be happy.”
Her eyes gleamed as she gave me a firm grip. “Yes, Iva, I am. Indeed, I am.”
“Iva, there’s something I’d like to show you,” John abruptly said. Accompany me.”
Inquisitive, John led me down a hallway. He halted with his hand on the doorknob of a closed door. He smiled and continued, “Your Mom’s been working on something special.” “Ready?”
My mouth fell open as I walked inside when he flung the door open.
It was a gallery-type space. Mom’s picture collection.
Every wall was covered in her exquisitely framed and illuminated paintings. A few porcelain doll sculptures were strewn about, and easels showcased works in progress.
Mom whispered softly, “John converted this room for me,” from behind me. “He calls it my ‘creativity hub’.”
Stupid, I turned to face her. She appeared… stunning.
John put an arm over her midsection. “I occasionally plan shows here. Ask your loved ones and fellow art enthusiasts to come. Florence’s artistic creations merit viewing.”
Mom reddened. John even created a website for me to market my artwork. I can concentrate on painting and sculpting since he takes care of all the commercial matters.”
My eyes started to water. “Mom, this is… amazing.”
John boastfully stated, “Your mom has an incredible talent.” “I just wanted to give her a space where she could really shine.”
I moved throughout the space, observing every element. There were abstract pieces that appeared to throb with passion, pictures of people I’d never known, and landscapes I knew from our former neighborhood.
“Do you remember this one?” Pointing to a tiny painting in the corner, Mom questioned.
I leaned in, gasping for air. It was an old kitchen table painting of me when I was a young child, coloring. My disheveled pigtails, the crayon smudges on my cheeks, and my intensely focused expression were all flawless details.
“You painted this?” I muttered.
Mom gave a nod. It’s a favorite of mine. I painted it immediately following the divorce. It took me back to more carefree days.”
I was so emotional that I gave her a hug right then and there. “I’m so proud of you, Mom.”
Memories flashed back to us as we stood there surrounded by my mother’s artwork. The tension that had permeated our home for so long was evident in Dad’s furious voice and Mom’s soft groans.
And this is it now. A space brimming with color, light, and love.
“You know, your mom was really hesitant to show me her work when I first met her,” John stated in a soft voice. Is that really true?”
Mom chuckled gently. “I was scared you’d think it was silly.”
“Silly?” John gave her a look as if she had hung the moon. “Flo, I fell in love with you because of your art. It’s a component of your identity.
I observed their glances at one another and their natural affinity for one another. This was the ideal appearance of love.
With tears in my eyes, I whispered, “Mom, I’m so happy for you.”
My mother embraced me tightly, her arms firm and confident. “Oh, my dear. I’m also content. More content than I have been in a very long time.”
I came to a deep realization as we stood there among the vibrant, life-filled canvases. Mom was thriving, and so was her art, which had previously been suppressed and underappreciated. And I had no doubts whatsoever that she had met her real love.
John clapped his hands together and stated, “So,” “Is anyone hungry? We could barbecue outside on the terrace, I was thinking.”
Mom’s eyes glowed. “Oh, it sounds really good! Will you be around for dinner, Iva?”
I felt a sensation of warmth rising within me as I gazed at them both. “I’d be delighted to,” I grinned. “I’d really love to.”
I had one more glance around the gallery before we left. The space served as much than just a display for Mom’s abilities. It was evidence of the nurturing and uplifting power of true love.
I laughed at one of John’s jokes and followed Mom and John into the kitchen, feeling, for the first time in years, really at home.
