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She shakes her head. “Mi abuela spent her life cleaning houses part-time before moving up to become a receptionist and then an assistant at M&S Financial,” she explains. “Most important, though, she spent most of her adult life raising her kids, being a wife, and then taking in two of my cousins.”
Joseline shrugs.
“I have no idea when she would’ve even found the time to paint, let alone attend classes for it.”
The story Joseline is telling me compared to the story my eyes tell me when I look at these paintings are worlds apart. Yet, they are about the same woman. Given what Joseline has shared with me, I get the impression her grandmother had to shut off the creative side of herself.
She had to let go of her dreams of becoming a full-time artist—if that’s what she wanted—in exchange for hard work so that she could raise and support her family. It’s not an uncommon story.
But the paintings reveal that the passion to create never entirely went away.
“And you’re sure you have legal ownership of these paintings?” I ask.
“Yes, she gave me the house and told me everything was mine to keep. She wanted to move to Florida with as few things as possible.”
“I will have to run this past my business attorney just to verify we have the right to feature this once the gallery opens,” I warn her. “I know you want to surprise her.”
Joseline’s face lights up around a smile. “It might be a long shot, but I would love to see her facial expression once she sees her creations hanging up in a real gallery. She’s given so much to our family, I want to do this for her.”
My eyes water, and I have to blink several times to keep my emotions locked down.
“So many women put themselves on hold for their families.” An image of my mom comes to mind. My heart beats against my ribcage.
The guilt of not making more of an effort to see her since I’ve moved home almost steals my breath. Suddenly, I miss her more than anything.
“Again, I’ll talk with my lawyer just to verify. But I would be honored to feature your grandmother’s work in my gallery.”
“Thank you.” Her voice is clogged with an emotion I don’t need her to explain.
“I need to get going. I’ll be in the call center this weekend to do a couple of hours,” I tell her.
Volunteering at the crisis center isn’t easy, considering the type of work we do, but I can’t imagine not doing it.
Though it’s close to five o’clock, I head over to the Williamsport University campus to see the one woman I’ve unintentionally been avoiding since I returned home.
* * *
“It’s open,”my mother’s voice passes through the closed door of her office after I knock.
As soon as I open it, I’m met with the sounds of classical music and the scent of lavender in the air. They immediately take me back to childhood memories of us preparing meals together.
“Monique.” My mom smiles as she stands.
I’m across the room in a couple of steps, embracing her. An unconscious need has me tucking my head into the crook of her neck and inhaling. I let the hug linger for a few seconds longer than usual.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, pulling back.
“This is such a nice surprise.”
I push down the guilt that tugs at my heart. In the month since I returned home, I managed to move into my new place, start renovations on my new business, acquire two artists to feature in said gallery, and start an entirely new relationship with my best friend.
Yet, this is the first time I’m visiting my mom’s office. Diego’s reminder that my mom misses me and my talk with Joseline about her grandmother brought me here.
“Are you busy? I know it’s a weird time, but if you’re free, I wanted to take you out to eat.”
I should’ve called her ahead of time and made actual plans, not caught her off-guard like this.
“I just finished up my final class for the day and was grading some papers before heading out. Those can wait. Where do you want to go?”
