My Dad always hated my Mom’s painting obsession, believing she was only fit to cook and clean.
After their divorce, I stepped into her new home and discovered something that took my breath away.
I never thought I’d be grateful for my parents’ divorce, but life has a way of surprising you. I’m Iva, 25 years old. What I found in my Mom’s new home after the split completely changed my perspective on what true love really looks like and it made me cry… Growing up, our house was filled with the smell of oil paints and the sweet scent of turpentine. My Mom, Florence, would always create something beautiful. But for my Dad, Benjamin, it was just noise and mess.“Florence! When are you gonna be done with that damn painting?”
Dad’s voice would boom from the kitchen. “This place is a pigsty, and dinner’s not even started!” Mom’s shoulders would tense, but her brush wouldn’t stop moving. “Just a few more minutes, Ben.
I’m almost finished with this section.”Dad would stomp into her workspace, his face red. “You and your silly hobby! When are you gonna grow up and act like a REAL WIFE?”I’d watch from the doorway, my heart pounding. Mom’s eyes would meet mine, filled with a sadness I couldn’t comprehend as a ten-year-old. “Iva, honey, why don’t you go set the table?” she’d say softly. I’d nod and scurry away, the sound of their argument following me down the hall. Years passed, and the arguments only got worse. When I was fourteen, they finally called it quits. Dad got custody, and I only saw Mom on weekends.
The first time I visited her new apartment, my heart sank. It was tiny, with barely enough room for a bed and a small easel in the corner. “Oh, sweetie, don’t look so sad,” Mom said, pulling me into a hug. “This place may be small, but it’s full of possibilities.” I tried to smile, but it felt forced. “Do you miss us, Mom?” Her eyes glistened. “Every day, Iva. But sometimes, we have to make hard choices to find happiness.” As I left 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 out as I reached the door. I turned back, forcing a smile. “Yeah, Mom. Next weekend.” Dad wasted no time moving on. His new wife, Karen, was everything he wanted Mom to be — organized, practical, and completely unartistic. “See, Iva? This is how a real household should run,” Dad said one evening, gesturing around the spotless kitchen. I nodded absently, my eyes drawn to the near-bare walls where Mom’s paintings used to hang. “It’s… nice, Dad.”
Karen beamed. “I’ve been teaching Iva some great cleaning tips, haven’t I, dear?” I forced a smile, thinking of the weekends spent with Mom, hands covered in paint, creating worlds on canvas. “Yeah, it’s… really useful.
Thanks, Karen.” Dad clapped his hands together. “That’s my girl. Now, who wants to watch some TV?” As we settled in the living room, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing for the messy, colorful evenings of my childhood.The years rolled by, and I grew used to the new normal. Weekdays with Dad and Karen in their immaculate house and weekends with Mom in her cramped apartment. But something was always 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 Mom called. She… she’s getting married again.” My heart skipped a beat. “Married? To who?” “Some guy named John. They’ve been dating for a while, apparently.” I sat down hard, my mind reeling. “Why didn’t she tell me?” Dad shrugged. “You know your mother. Always living in her own little world.” I bristled at his tone but 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, pulling up to her new house, my stomach churning with nerves. What if this John guy was just another version of Dad? Mom greeted me at the door, practically glowing. “Iva! Oh, I’ve missed you!” She hugged me tight, smelling of lavender and linseed oil, a scent that instantly brought me back to childhood. John appeared behind her, a warm smile on his face. “So this is the famous Iva!