Hey everyone,
I’ve been debating whether or not to write this confession for a long time. It’s hard to put into words something that’s lived inside me for so long, but I think it’s time I finally share my story.
The unraveling of my truth began with something as innocuous as a painting. A small, framed watercolor, barely larger than a postcard, hung tucked away in the corner of my parents’ living room. It was a piece I never paid much attention to, blending as it did into the soft pastel walls of our family home.
Growing up, I’d been told a simple story about the painting by my mother: it was painted by a friend of the family, a hobbyist artist. I never thought much more of it until last spring when I was helping my parents clean out the attic. I stumbled upon an old sketchbook, the cover dusty and worn, its pages filled with delicate watercolor sketches and warm washes of indigo.
It was a bit like opening a window to a past I never knew existed. My curiosity got the better of me, and I took the sketchbook to my mother. Her face went through a myriad of emotions — surprise, then a flicker of something deeper, something like sorrow. I could see her weighing her words carefully before she spoke. ‘It’s your father’s,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
I was stunned. My father, who worked long hours at the law firm, always seemed far removed from the world of art. It was hard to connect the methodical, analytical man I knew with the artist who had created such tender, evocative works. I asked her why she never told me, and why he never pursued it.
She hesitated. ‘He used to paint before you were born. He gave it up when life got… busy,’ she explained, her eyes softening. ‘He always said he’d return to it someday.’
I couldn’t shake the feeling of loss, not only for my father but for myself and the relationship I thought I knew. Something pulled at me — a desire to learn more. I spent the next few weeks trying to understand this new facet of my father. It felt like peeling back layers of a story I’d only ever read half of.
The turning point came on an unassuming Sunday afternoon. I decided to take a bold step and asked my dad about the painting. We sat in his study, the air filled with the scent of old books and polished wood. ‘Why did you stop?’ I asked, my voice tinged with a desperation I hadn’t intended.
He was quiet for a long time, his gaze fixed on the indigo swirls in the watercolor. ‘Life happened, I guess,’ he said finally, his voice gruff but lined with wistfulness. ‘I got caught up in providing, in doing what was expected of me. And then… I just let it go.’
His words sunk into the silence like stones, creating ripples that spread through our shared history. I saw the years of denial in his eyes, a life spent chasing shadows while part of him lay dormant.
But then, in that moment, something shifted. He looked at me, really looked at me, with a vulnerability I’d never seen before. ‘I didn’t think anyone cared about that side of me anymore,’ he admitted.
It was like a floodgate opened. We spoke for hours about art, about the dreams he once had, and the life he lived. I shared my own dreams, my fears of never quite being enough. We both cried, unashamedly, as if cleansing the years of unspoken words between us.
And so began a new chapter for us. We started painting together on weekends. He taught me how to blend colors, to let the brush dance across the paper. It became our shared sanctuary, a place where we could be ourselves, beyond the roles we were supposed to play.
I’ve learned that personal truths have a way of finding you, no matter how deeply they are buried. My father’s art, a lost treasure, became the bridge to a new understanding between us.
So here’s to rediscovering pieces of ourselves we didn’t know were missing, and to the courage of facing them with honesty and love. If you read this far, thank you for listening. I hope it inspires you to seek out those hidden parts of your own story.
With love,
Ella