The image above depicts the dining area of my parents’ home, encapsulating everything I cherish about my mother. This was my reality growing up. I first encountered the phrase “everything has a place” during visits to Ella’s family, who maintain a stunningly organized home, complete with a closet dedicated solely to perfectly pressed tablecloths. In contrast, my mother’s style leans towards the, well, eclectic, but she has an uncanny knack for finding anything you ask for.
“Mom, where can I find the scissors?”
“On the bedside table, right next to the purple earrings and beneath the stack of bracelets.”
There were moments in my youth when I felt embarrassed to invite friends over, particularly in middle school when I became aware that many of my peers came from wealthier families. Initially, I thought that didn’t matter, as all the stories told me that money was insignificant. However, one day a friend mentioned she could no longer visit my house because she had spotted a roach, and suddenly I found myself self-conscious about everything—how my parents worked multiple jobs, my generic shoes that I had to customize with blue marker to resemble more expensive brands, and the fact that I had never traveled abroad or lived in a spotless home. My mind understood that love outweighed cleanliness and that I had more affection in my life than many households could boast.
My parents never aspired to maintain a pristine home, unlike my grandparents, who I hear were immaculate. When my mother bought the family house from my grandparents in 1974, she immediately made it her own. Although the furniture from her parents remained, the walls underwent a transformation over the next 44 years. In a bold act of defiance at just 22 years old, she adorned the living room with a vintage Old Fitzgerald billboard. Over time, she stripped away dated wallpaper and painted the walls in eye-popping colors. My dad, bless him, never publicly commented.
Lately, I’ve been staying in the dining room of our family home—last listed on the market in 1948. The stone elephant I gaze at has been a fixture in this room for 70 years. After rearranging furniture to accommodate a hospital bed for Mom, I noticed she had painted around the furniture just three years ago. She also chose to split the color scheme vertically between mint green and light sky blue, applying the paint freehand, which resulted in charmingly crooked lines. Her pride in this unique choice fills me with joy, as it embodies the idea that your home should reflect what makes you happy. That half-mint, half-light blue wall brings her joy every day, a testament to her free spirit.
Mom’s wardrobe is just as vibrant—she pairs socks with Birkenstocks, floral skirts with paisley tops, and wears long earrings like a true artist. Her living room is a playful purple, the kitchen a lively turquoise, and the dining space a mix of blue, mint green, hunter green, and beige. For two decades, her bedroom was a blend of coral and teal before transitioning to bright lavender, while the sunroom radiates a bold red. She even has a half-finished mural of flowers in the kitchen, remnants of a teenage project of mine that she refuses to paint over, despite the plaster’s deterioration.
To a real estate agent, this house might be a nightmare, and I can only imagine my grandmother’s reaction. Yet, it brings my mother happiness. She never declined an invitation, was the first to arrive at gatherings, knew the lyrics to every song, and loved fiercely without fretting over dust or my choice to pursue music instead of a more traditional path.
As I sit in this blue, green, and beige dining room, I find myself using past tense, which brings a wave of sadness. My mom is still here, just a foot away, peacefully sleeping after enduring unbearable pain. I’m restless, distracted by the mess around me, compelled to clean and organize. But I recognize that I should pause, hold her hand, and remember her essential lesson: to slow down, cherish moments, and paint your home in whatever colors bring you joy.
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Summary: This piece reflects on the author’s experiences and lessons learned from her mother about the true meaning of home. It explores the eclectic charm of their family house, the significance of personal happiness over perfection, and the enduring love that defines a home.