The Fracture of Sunday Mornings: A Story About Dreams, Divorce, and Daring to Hope

“Mom, did you ever want to be a painter?”

The question stopped me cold, wooden spoon poised above the saucepan. I watched the milk threaten to boil over, and in that split second, I remembered how it felt—the ache in my fingers for a brush, the smell of turpentine clinging to my hair, the hush of my childhood bedroom as I painted wild, hopeful things. My daughter, Lily, was hunched over a battered sketchbook at the kitchen table, her tongue poking out as she coaxed a trembling branch of lilac into life. Purple splotches dotted her page, uncertain but beautiful.

I took a breath, forcing a smile. “I did, sweetheart. When I was about your age, I wanted to be an artist. I thought I’d fill the world with color.”

Lily looked up, her blue eyes so much like mine—except hers hadn’t learned to hide disappointment yet. “Why didn’t you?”

Why didn’t I? The question echoed in the kitchen, bouncing off the cracked tile and the stack of overdue bills on the counter. I turned off the stove and sat across from her, the weight of my answer pressing on my chest like a stone. Could I tell her about the way dreams wither when you’re busy surviving? Could I explain how love can turn brittle, how your own needs shrink quieter every year until they’re just a whisper?

I tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “It’s complicated,” I said. “Sometimes, life takes you in another direction.”

She frowned, dabbing at her lilac with a soggy brush. “I think you’d be a good painter, Mom.”

The words struck something raw in me. I wanted to say thank you, but it caught in my throat. Instead, I watched her draw, my mind drifting back to when I was nine and the world felt infinite, before I met Mark, before I learned how easily a heart can break.

Mark and I met at Bowling Green State, both of us young and reckless. He was studying business, I was tucked away in the art department, painting angry sunflowers and pretending I didn’t care if anyone noticed. He noticed, though. He always did. We married after graduation, moved to Columbus, bought a house with a peeling porch and a yard full of dandelions. I stopped painting when Lily was born, packed away my easel in the attic because there wasn’t time—not with diapers and night feeds, not when Mark’s job turned him into a ghost who haunted the house only on weekends, always smelling faintly of whiskey.

The fights started after Lily turned five. At first, they were just sharp words—about money, about chores, about how I was always tired and he was never home. But then the silences stretched longer, the distance between us growing like a shadow in the hall. I tried to fix things, tried to be the mother and wife I thought I should be, but I lost myself in the process. When Mark finally left, I wasn’t even surprised.

“Mom?” Lily’s voice pulled me back. She was watching me, concern in her brow. “Are you sad?”

I shook my head, but the tears threatened anyway. “No, honey. Just… remembering.”

She reached across the table, her small hand warm on mine. “Will you paint with me?”

How could I say no to that?

We spent the afternoon hunched over cheap watercolors and printer paper, the kitchen filling with laughter and the sweet, familiar smell of paint. For the first time in years, I felt something loosen in my chest. The next morning, Lily’s father called. I could tell by the way her face lit up that he’d promised a trip to the zoo, or maybe ice cream. I tried not to listen as she chattered into the phone, but the ache was familiar.

After the call, she looked at me, uncertain. “Dad says maybe I can live with him sometimes.”

It was the thing I feared most—that Mark would take her away from me. That he’d offer her the stability I couldn’t, the big house, the new girlfriend who baked cookies and never forgot to sign field trip forms. I tried to keep my voice steady. “We’ll talk about it, okay?”

She nodded, but I could see the confusion in her eyes. She was only eight. How could she understand?

That night, after Lily went to bed, I sat at the kitchen table alone, staring at a blank sheet of paper. The house was so quiet, it hurt. I picked up a brush, dipped it in violet, and let it bleed across the page. I painted the lilacs from memory, letting the colors run wild, unafraid. For a moment, I was nine again, the world open and full of possibility.

The next day, Mark arrived early. He looked tired, his jaw clenched tight. “We need to talk, Em.”

I braced myself. “About what?”

He glanced at Lily, who was packing her backpack. “About custody.”

The word landed like a punch. We argued in low, bitter voices while Lily pretended not to hear. Mark wanted more weekends, more holidays. I wanted to keep my daughter close, afraid she’d slip away from me just like everything else had—my marriage, my art, my sense of self.

“You think you’re the only one who matters?” Mark hissed. “I’m her father. She needs me, too.”

“I never said she didn’t. But she needs stability. She needs to know I’ll always be here.”

His eyes softened, just a little. “You’re a good mom, Em. But you can’t keep her all to yourself.”

I wanted to scream, to beg him not to take her. Instead, I nodded, swallowing my pride. “Let’s talk to her. See what she wants.”

That night, after Mark left, Lily crawled into my lap, her breath warm against my neck. “Will you still paint with me, even if I’m not here all the time?”

I hugged her tight. “Always, baby. That’s a promise.”

Weeks passed. The custody agreement was signed. Lily spent every other weekend with Mark, coming home smelling like someone else’s laundry detergent. It hurt, but I learned to fill the empty hours with painting. I took a part-time job at the library, started taking art classes online, rediscovering the girl I used to be.

One day, Lily brought home a painting from her dad’s house—a field of wild, messy sunflowers. “I made this for you, Mom.”

I cried, right there in the kitchen, sunlight pooling on the linoleum. For the first time, I realized that maybe I hadn’t failed her. Maybe, by picking up a brush again, by letting her see me vulnerable and hopeful, I was teaching her how to survive heartbreak. How to start over.

Now, every Sunday morning, Lily and I paint together. The lilacs have gotten bolder, the colors richer. Sometimes, I catch her looking at me with a quiet pride, and I know I’m more than what I lost.

I wonder, as I watch her, brush in hand, “Is it ever too late to become the person you once dreamed of being?” Or is it possible that, by daring to begin again, we teach our children how to hope?