My mother, who fancies herself a refined soul, lives in a world of delusions. She sees herself as an artist surrounded by an aura of bohemia, scorning anyone who doesn’t fit her narrow vision of beauty. My husband, Tom, became the embodiment of everything she despises—he doesn’t wear suits, doesn’t fawn over her amateur paintings, and, in her words, “ruins the family’s image.” Because of this, she cut us out of her life, forbidding us from attending family gatherings in Willowbrook. But I refuse to betray my husband for her shallow whims.
Mum always dreamed of our family being “exceptional.” Dad played in a local orchestra in his youth, she calls herself an artist, and my sister, Emily, is still “finding herself” despite being in her thirties. As for me, after finishing music school, I never became part of their so-called “creative circle.” Mum lamented that I lacked “spark,” and I grew up feeling like a disappointment. But I don’t chase their pretentious bohemian fantasy—I live in the real world.
From the outside, we might seem like a cultured family. But it’s a façade. Mum never became a celebrated artist—no one buys her paintings. She teaches art at a secondary school and gifts her canvases to relatives, who hang them out of politeness. Her “art” consists of chaotic brushstrokes, which she justifies with elaborate backstories about her emotions. “It adds depth,” she insists. But I see things clearly: her hobby is just that—not a masterpiece.
She appoints herself the arbiter of taste and beauty, deciding who’s worthy of her company. In her eyes, my Tom is a “rough oaf.” He doesn’t wear dress suits, preferring jeans and t-shirts. He’s a mechanic, fixing cars with calloused hands, but he’s brilliant at his job. We lack for nothing. Yet all Mum sees are his “scuffed trainers” and disinterest in her art.
When Tom and I first started dating, Mum invited us to her birthday. He wore a tidy shirt and smart jeans—everything pressed and clean. Still, she greeted him with a sour face, as if he’d shown up in oil-stained overalls.
“Couldn’t he at least wear a blazer?” she hissed, rolling her eyes.
“You never mentioned a dress code!” I shot back, my temper rising.
“Common sense, darling,” she snapped.
Meanwhile, Emily’s husband arrived in a three-piece suit, spouted some pompous toast, and Mum fawned over him. We lasted an hour before leaving, unable to bear her disdain. The next day, she called with her decree: “Don’t bring your husband to family events again. You throw off the atmosphere.”
I was stunned. She expected me to come alone—as if Tom didn’t matter. It was a slap in the face. It’s both of us or neither. Tom and I agreed: no more gatherings. Let Mum choke on her pretentious little parties.
She took offence, pleading with me to visit without him, but I stood firm. Then she lashed out: “You’re tearing this family apart over some mechanic! He’s beneath you! You went to music school—we had such hopes for you, and you settled for a grease monkey!”
I didn’t argue. What hopes? I’m an ordinary woman, content without artistic pretensions. I worked hard but was never extraordinary. And her precious son-in-law, Emily’s husband? He doesn’t work, leeching off her and their parents—yet he’s “worthy” because he wears a tailored suit?
I love Tom. He’s dependable, kind, and real. With him, I feel safe. I couldn’t care less that he doesn’t discuss brushstrokes or wear dinner jackets. Mum can wail all she likes—her opinion means nothing. I’ve chosen my family, and it’s not the one obsessed with delusions of grandeur.
Still, her words sting. She severed us from the family as if we’re unworthy. Sometimes I wonder—how can someone be so cruel? She didn’t just reject my husband; she rejected me, her own daughter. All over some imagined “image.” But I won’t bend. Tom and I are happy, and we don’t need her shallow gatherings. Let Mum live in her fantasy—I chose real love.
True worth isn’t measured in appearances, but in the strength of the bonds we choose.