Long ago, my mother, who fancied herself a refined soul, lived in a world of her own making. She saw herself as an artist, wrapped in an aura of bohemian elegance, and scorned anyone who failed to measure up to her lofty ideals. My husband, Thomas, became the embodiment of everything she despised—he wore no tailored suits, cared little for her haphazard paintings, and, in her words, “disfigured” our family. For this, she struck us from her life, forbidding us from attending gatherings in the quiet village of Ashford. But I would never betray my husband for her whims.
Mother had always dreamed our family would be “exceptional.” Father once played in the local orchestra, she styled herself an artist, and my sister Victoria, well past thirty, still “found herself.” I, after finishing music school, never joined their so-called “creative circle.” She lamented my lack of spark, and I grew up feeling I’d failed her. But I had no desire for their imaginary bohemia—I preferred the real world.
To outsiders, we must have seemed cultured. But it was a facade. Mother never became the celebrated painter she imagined—no one bought her work. She taught art at a village school, gifting her canvases to obliging relatives who hung them out of politeness. Her “art” was a mess of chaotic brushstrokes, each paired with grandiose tales of her emotions. “It gives them value,” she’d insist. But I saw plainly: they were hobbyist daubs, not masterpieces.
She deemed herself the judge of beauty and taste, deciding who deserved her company. Thomas, in her eyes, was a “crude lout.” He wore jeans and jumpers, never a suit, and worked as a mechanic, his hands rough from labour. Yet he was skilled, with no shortage of customers, and we lacked for nothing. All she saw were his “scuffed boots” and his indifference to her paintings.
When Thomas and I first courted, she invited us to her birthday. He arrived in a pressed shirt and neat trousers—presentable, clean. But she greeted him with a sour face, as though he’d come in overalls.
“Couldn’t you manage a blazer?” she hissed, rolling her eyes.
“You never mentioned a dress code!” I shot back, my temper rising.
“It’s common sense!” she snapped.
Meanwhile, Victoria’s husband arrived in a three-piece suit, spouting pompous toasts, and she simpered with delight. We stayed an hour before leaving, unable to bear her disdain. The next day, she called with her decree:
“Don’t bring that husband of yours to family gatherings again. You spoil the atmosphere.”
I was stunned. She expected me to come alone—as if I’d abandon Thomas. It was a slap in the face. Together or not at all, we decided. No more of her “refined” soirees for us.
She took offence. She phoned, wheedled, but I held firm. Then came the attack:
“You’re tearing this family apart over that oaf! He’s beneath you! You studied music—we had such hopes! And you throw it all away for some grease-stained mechanic!”
I didn’t argue. What hopes? I was no prodigy—just a diligent student. And her precious son-in-law? He lived off Victoria and her parents, yet his tailored suit made him worthy in her eyes.
I loved Thomas. He was steadfast, kind, real. With him, I felt safe. I couldn’t care less if he knew nothing of art or wore no dinner jacket. Her opinion meant nothing. I’d chosen my family—not the one lost in pretension and delusion.
Yet her words still cut. She cast us out as though we were unworthy. Sometimes I wondered—how could someone be so cruel? She didn’t just reject Thomas; she rejected me, her own daughter, all for some imagined “style.” But I wouldn’t yield. Thomas and I were happy. We needed no grand gatherings. Let her live in her fantasy—I’d chosen real love.