My dad never liked my mom’s penchant for painting because he thought she was only good at cooking and cleaning. After their separation, I ventured into her new home and found something that blew my mind.
Life has a way of surprising you, and I never thought I’d be grateful for my parents’ divorce. I’m Iva, and I’m 25.
After the breakup, what I found in my mother’s new home completely changed my perspective on what it means to be in love, and it made me cry.
When I was growing up, our house was filled with the sweet scent of turpentine and oil paint.
Florence, my mother, would always come up with something beautiful. However, for Benjamin, my father, it was merely chaos and noise.
“Florence! When are you going to be finished with that damn composition?
” From the kitchen, Dad’s voice would often be heard.
Even before dinner has begun, this place is a pigsty!
While her brush would continue to move, Mom’s shoulders would tense.
Ben, just a few more moments. This section is almost finished for me.
Dad would red-faced stomp into her workspace. You and your absurd pastime!
My heart would pound as I watched from the doorway, asking, “When are you going to grow up and act like a REAL WEEKEND?
” As a ten-year-old, I couldn’t comprehend the sadness in Mom’s eyes as they met mine.
Iva, why don’t you go set the table, honey? She would whisper.
The sound of their argument would follow me down the hall as I nodded and fled. As time went on, disagreements only got worse.
When I was fourteen, they ended their relationship.
I only got to see Mom on weekends because Dad got custody.
My heart broke the first time I saw her new apartment. It had a small easel in the corner and barely enough space for a bed.
Mom said, “Oh, sweetie, don’t look so sad,” and she embraced me. Despite its small size, this location is full of possibilities.
I made an effort to smile, but it seemed forced.
Mom, do you miss us?
Her eyes sparkled. Iva, every day.
However, in order to achieve happiness, we must sometimes make difficult choices. She was unpacking her paints when I heard her humming as I left that day.
I hadn’t heard it in a long time.
“See you again next weekend, okay?
” I got to the door as Mom called out. I forced a grin as I turned around.
Yes, Mother. This weekend.
” Dad moved on immediately.
Karen, his new wife, was completely unartistic, organized, and practical—just like Mom.
Look, Iva? Dad made a gesture throughout the spotless kitchen one evening, “This is how a real household should run.
” My attention was drawn to the nearly bare walls where Mom’s paintings used to hang, so I nodded absently. Dad, it’s.
.
.
nice. Karen was beaming.
Haven’t I, dear, been imparting some useful cleaning hints to Iva? Thinking back to the weekends spent with Mom, hands covered in paint, creating worlds on canvas, I forced a smile.
Yes, it is extremely useful.
Karen, thanks.
Dad clapped with both hands. That girl is mine.
Who wants to watch some television now? I couldn’t help but long for the chaotic and vibrant evenings of my youth as we settled into the living room.
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