Father Got Mad When Mom Painted Instead of Doing Chores – What I Saw in Her House after the Divorce Made Me Gasp

My father used to get so angry when my mom painted instead of handling chores. I never understood his frustration—her art was mesmerizing, full of vibrant landscapes, portraits, and abstract wonders. But to him, it was just a distraction. He’d rant about the messy house, late dinners, and how she was "wasting time" on "silly hobbies."

As the years passed, their arguments grew worse until they divorced when I was fourteen. Dad got custody, and life changed. He quickly remarried someone who was everything he thought Mom should’ve been—organized, punctual, uninterested in art. I tried to be happy for him, but something just felt… off.

Then, just last weekend, I visited Mom’s new place. She, too, had remarried, to a guy named John. As we caught up, John mentioned he had something to show me. Intrigued, I followed him down a hallway to a room I’d never noticed before.

When he opened the door, I gasped. The room was ⬇️

Full in the comment! ⬇️

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.

As the years passed, I became accustomed to the new norm. weekends with Mom in her cramped apartment, and weekdays with Dad and Karen in their immaculate house.

But there was always something missing. Dad came to my door one Friday evening as I was getting ready for my weekend visit.

Dear Iva, may we speak? Surprised, I looked up.

Yes, Dad. What’s wrong?

” He was sitting on the edge of my bed and seemed uneasy. Your mother called.

She is. .

. getting married once more.

My heart sped up a little. Married?

To who? ” “ John, a man’s name.

It appears that they have been dating for some time. I sat down hard, my thoughts racing.

Why did she not inform me? ” Dad just shrugged.

Your mother is known to you. Continually residing in her own little world.

” His tone bothered me, but I remained silent. I stared at my half-packed bag as he left the room, wondering what this would mean for our weekends together.

Rewind to the weekend before. Due to work and college commitments, I hadn’t seen Mom in months.

However, here I was, with nerves coursing through my body, approaching her new residence. What would happen if this John guy was just another Dad?

I was greeted at the door by Mom, who was almost glowing. Iva!

Oh, I’ve been missing you! The scent of lavender and linseed oil in her hug instantly transported me back to my childhood.

John appeared behind her with a warm smile. Thus, this is the renowned Iva!

I’ve learned a lot about you from your mother. We talked for a while, and I noticed that Mom seemed to stand taller and laugh more easily.

I hadn’t seen that spark in her eyes in years. How is school going?

” While making me a cup of tea, Mom inquired. It’s great.

Busy, but good,” I replied while closely observing her. Why didn’t you tell me about John sooner, Mom?

Her cheeks had a light blush as she looked down. Honey, oh!

I wanted to, but I was probably afraid. ”“Scared?

From what? that you would reject.

that you would think I was taking over for your father. ” I took her hand with my extended hand.

All I want, Mom, is for you to be content. She gave me a firm squeeze, her eyes shining.

Iva, I am. Indeed, I am.

John abruptly stated, “Iva, I’d like to show you something. Stay with me.

I followed John down a hallway, curious. His hand was on the doorknob as he stopped at a closed door.

He said with a grin, “Your mother has been working on something special. ” Ready?

” My jaw dropped as I stepped inside after he swung the door open. A gallery was in the room.

Mom’s collection. Every wall was covered in her beautifully framed and lit paintings.

Easels had works-in-progress on display, and there were even a few porcelain doll sculptures scattered about. Mom softly commented from behind me, “John converted this room for me.

” He refers to it as my “creativity hub. ” I looked at her and was speechless.

She appeared. .

. radiant.

Her waist was wrapped around John’s arm. Occasionally, I organize shows here.

Invite loved ones and local art enthusiasts. The art of Florence ought to be seen.

Mom shed a tear. John even set up a website where my paintings could be sold.

He takes care of everything business-related so I can concentrate on painting and sculpting. I felt tears well up in my eyes.

This is. .

. amazing, Mom.

” John said, “Your Mom’s talent is extraordinary,” with pride in his voice. I simply desired to provide her with a setting in which she could truly shine.

I looked at each piece as I walked around the room. I recognized some of the landscapes from our previous neighborhood, as well as portraits of strangers and abstract works that seemed to pulse with emotion.

Are you aware of this one? ” Pointing to a small canvas in the corner, Mom inquired.

Breathing hard, I leaned in. A painting of me coloring at our old kitchen table when I was a little girl.

My messy pigtails, the crayon smudges on my cheeks, and the expression of intense concentration on my face were all flawless details. Did you paint this?

I mumbled. Mom gave a nod.

One of my favorites is it. I painted it immediately following.

. .

well, the divorce. It brought back happy memories for me.

I was so moved that I hugged her right then. Mom, I am so happy for you.

Memories came flooding back as we stood there, surrounded by my mother’s artwork. The tension that had pervaded our home for so long, Dad’s vengeful voice, and Mom’s still sighs.

And this is now. a space brimming with love, color, and light.

John said in a gentle voice, “You know, when I first met your mother, she was so reluctant to show me her work. ” Is that really true?

” Mom gave a soft chuckle. I was afraid that you would think it was silly.

Silly? ” John looked at her as though she had strangled the moon.

I fell in love with you, Flo, because of your work of art. You are a part of it.

” The way they looked at each other and their obvious affection caught my eye as I observed them. This was the ideal representation of love.

I whispered, “I’m so happy for you, Mom,” and my eyes welled up with tears. Her sturdy arms held me close as she embraced me.

Oh, my dear. I’m also happy.

Happier than I have in a very, very long time. I came to a profound realization as we stood there surrounded by vibrant paintings.

Mom’s art, which was once suppressed and underappreciated, was now flourishing, as was she. Additionally, I was absolutely certain that she had found her true love.