The image above captures my parents’ dining room, showcasing all the qualities I cherish in my mother. This space has always represented my version of normal. I first encountered the idea of “everything has its place” while visiting friends from wealthier families—one of whom had a closet solely dedicated to immaculate tablecloths, perfectly pressed and hung. In contrast, my mother’s style is more eclectic, yet she has an uncanny knack for knowing exactly where everything is located.
“Mom, do you know where the scissors are?”
“Sure! They’re on the bedside table, right next to the purple earrings and under the pile of bracelets.”
In my teenage years, I occasionally felt embarrassed to bring friends home, particularly after realizing that some of them had much more money than my family. For a time, I let those thoughts get to me, influenced by books and movies that suggested wealth was irrelevant. However, one incident changed everything—a friend mentioned she couldn’t come over anymore because she’d seen a roach. Suddenly, I felt ashamed of everything: my parents working multiple jobs, my worn-out shoes I had to customize to resemble designer brands, and the fact that I had never traveled abroad.
Despite these moments of doubt, I knew deep down that love trumped cleanliness, and my home overflowed with it. My parents never maintained a picture-perfect house, unlike my grandparents, who prided themselves on a pristine environment. After purchasing my grandparents’ home in 1974, my mother made it uniquely hers, with her teenage rebellion showing through. At just 22, she boldly wallpapered the living room with an Old Fitzgerald billboard, and over the years, she transformed the walls into vibrant shades—her husband never openly complained.
Recently, I’ve been sleeping in the dining room of our family home, which hasn’t seen the market since 1948. That stone elephant in the corner? It’s been a fixture for 70 years. We moved some furniture to make space for a hospital bed, only to discover that when my mother painted the dining room three years ago, she had painted around the furniture. She carefully selected a two-color theme—mint green and light sky blue—dividing the room vertically in a freehand style, which adds character, even if it’s a bit crooked.
Her bold design choices make me admire her even more. A home should be a source of happiness, and my mom’s half-mint green and half-light blue walls reflect that sentiment. She embraces her unique style, wearing socks with her Birkenstocks and pairing floral skirts with paisley tops. Our home is anything but a real estate agent’s dream, and I can only imagine how my grandmother would react. But for my mother, it’s perfect.
She never hesitated to accept an invitation, was often the first to arrive at gatherings, and knew the lyrics to every song—even if her rhythm was off. Dust on the mantel or my choice to pursue a music career over academia never bothered her. She understood how to prioritize what truly mattered.
As I sit in this dining room, typing beside her as she sleeps peacefully, I reflect on the bittersweet nature of time. I’ve been caught up in cleaning and organizing, but I know what she would say: to take a moment, hold hands, and live vibrantly.
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In summary, my mother’s approach to home and life emphasizes love, individuality, and the importance of making choices that bring joy. It’s these lessons that will resonate with me forever.