My Mother's Day: Green Paint, Slot Machines, and a Whole Lot of Pain

A Sixty-Year Journey Finds Its Off-Ramp

A note before we begin: I have two mothers. The first, who raised me, I call The Witch. She was cruel, controlling, and incapable of love. The second, my biological mother, Carol, I found at 29, after making a pledge to myself when I was very small, to find her someday. We built twenty years of real closeness before illness, distance, and silence eroded what we had. She died last year. This piece is about neither of them specifically. It is about what I lost when I lost the idea of a mother—and how I found my way to goodbye.

“The Deep Pain of Moms Lost” by Victoria R. Wolf

From my journal on Mother’s Day 2026:

Mother’s Day. It’s fucking Mother’s Day. I really wish I had the power to cancel this event, but I do not. And that would not be fair to all the children who want to celebrate their mothers.

The Witch has been physically gone from this world since 2008, but was gone for me since 1995, when she disowned me. But yet, she invaded my dreams last night. Why? I don’t remember the details, but she was there. And I know that means something, whether I like it or not.

But it’s the biological mom I have not felt like celebrating in quite some time. I don’t know when it started, but after being so very close for twenty years, my mom and I began to drift apart around 2017 or 2018. Mom was diagnosed with COPD in 2017 and lung cancer in 2019. During those times, I was knee-deep in my gluten-free business, and we did not spend a ton of time together, but we did see each other often. And, we spoke on the phone regularly. I think the sicker she got, the further apart we became. And then, there was a huge blowup between the four of us (Rich, me, my Mom, and her husband) in late 2019 that took too many months to resolve.

Three years later, Rich and I left for our full-time RV adventure. That’s when things really changed. She was distraught that we were gone, and every phone call with her had nothing to do with me. She would spend 20 minutes straight talking about herself and would rarely ask how I was doing. She did, however, have so much stress and anxiety about our nomadic lifestyle that she would constantly tell me how worried she was about the weather near us, our safety on travel days, and more. She was not content keeping that anxiety to herself but instead put it on me, as if I was responsible for it. That was unfair, and because of that, I was hesitant to answer the phone whenever she called. That lasted for nearly 2 years. Then, we found ourselves in the same city once again, and somehow, we did not get much closer. She became sicker, withdrew into herself, and as life became hard to live, she became bitter and even mean. Then, last year, a week after her 80th birthday, she died. And I was so very sad to lose her. To lose what we once had.

But then, I was angry. So very angry.

A month or so after her death, I learned that the man she said was my biological father, the man whose name was listed as my father on my “real” birth certificate, was not my father at all. Well, actually, as soon as my DNA came back 49% Ashkenazi Jew back in 2018, I “knew,” but guess my brain did not want me to accept it because I found many ways to explain it away. I pretended the lineage came from deeper in my dad’s family, and I came up with other ideas that had no basis in logic whatsoever. And, over 7 years, no DNA matches to my “real dad” were ever made. My Mom saw the results, too, and egged me on to figure out how it was possible. I believe she fully knew that my dad was not my dad and kept it to herself.

I guess after her death, when I looked at the DNA data again, my brain felt it was safe for me to accept the truth. And once I did, I wanted answers. But it was too late. She was gone, and she took my answers with her.

I am so mad at her. So very, very mad. But I have always been mad at her on some level, right? Yes, I have always felt anger about her giving me up for adoption. But we spent 30 years together, and I should be grateful for that, right? Yeah, well, she said early on in our relationship, “I don’t have to say I am sorry about what I did. It was the only choice I had,” even after hearing about my horrible childhood. A childhood she and my father, whoever the hell he is, put into motion.

So yeah, Mother’s Day is challenging.

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This is how it typically starts. I write in my journal about whatever is causing me emotions or stress. Many times it is a rant, like above. Rants are so critical for me. I let the emotions out without trying to minimize or dismiss them, which is what I usually do when feelings rear their ugly heads. And then, after the rant is written, I sit with emotions for a while, stew on them even, and either fight them or make the decision to meet them head-on. When I choose the latter, I head to the canvas. After working within this pattern for a couple of years, I know this is the best method for me to express the emotions that so easily get caught up in not only my head but also my body. And if I don’t give the emotions and outlet for release, they turn more deeply inward and cause so much more pain, inside and out.

Rich and I had plans to take his mom to the casino and lunch today, so painting was probably not on the agenda. I had to figure out what to do with all the feelings weaving in and out of my mind. I resorted to a familiar tactic: distraction and denial.

I got myself ready for the day and told myself that putting money into a machine that will most likely not return it will be something I would enjoy. And at the very least, I will be eating at one of my favorite Greek restaurants. All good, right?

On the drive downtown, my aunt sent a text for Mother’s Day, saying she “hoped I would feel my Mom’s presence today” and that “she does often.” Well, I don’t feel her presence ever, and I didn’t expect I would that day, but I thought, well, maybe I will today, and I committed to being open-minded.

After valet parking and printing a new loyalty card (of course, I lost my old one, although I have no idea why I even need one), we all headed to the nickel video poker machines. Rich and his mom headed one direction, and I headed the other. As I sat down at the machine and fed it my money, I thought to myself, hey, you’re doing pretty good with the emotions, as I mentally patted myself on the back.

The machine was not playing nicely (translation: it took more money than it paid out), so I decided to find another machine. My aunt’s text kept running in my head, and part of me did want to “feel her presence” today, so I headed to a row of old slot machines, the same ones my Mom and I would play when we went “up the hill” to the casinos in Colorado.

I sat down at a Double Diamond machine and fed it money. When I was younger, and I guess more risk-averse, I played the 25-cent machines and always chose “Max Bet.” It’s that choice that got me $500 down the first time my Mom and I played in 1995. Losing that kind of money to a slot machine freaked me out, so I kept playing frantically, determined to win it all back. And amazingly, I did! But now that I am older, I would rather spend less money and more time at the machine than increase my chances of winning. Now, I play the 5-cent machines and bet a whopping 15-cents per play.

As I sat there playing and hoping for a sign of my Mom’s presence, none came. Although I thought about my Mom a lot, I did not feel anything but the frustration of watching my money slowly slip away, and a strong urge to find a bathroom.

And that was okay. I’m not really the type of person who would assume I would feel, hear, or see the spirits of dead people. I do, however, believe it is entirely possible that others do.

After the three of us determined we were done with gambling, we headed to the Golden Fleece for a delicious Greek lunch. The food did not disappoint, and my MIL said it was the best Mother’s Day ever. The lamb shank she ordered was bigger than her head, and I am sure that was the fuel for her “greatest ever” comments. It made me so very happy to see her happy.

It was an hour-long drive back to Rich’s mom’s place, and as I sat in the back seat, enjoying the urban scenery of Detroit and its surrounding suburbs, I was replaying the day in my head. I think part of me wanted to “feel” my Mom, but the other part of me had no interest in such an experience. I was deeply conflicted and a bit worried I would find myself in a rabbit hole later in the evening. But then my son called to wish me Happy Mother’s Day, and it was the distraction I needed.

Us not being together on this day is its own brand of pain, but hearing his voice always makes my day better. We chatted for a bit, and by the time we dropped Rich’s mom off at her place, I was in a better headspace.

Rich was tired from the day’s activities (and all the driving), so he made himself comfortable on the couch and closed his eyes. As soon as I heard the familiar sound of snoring, I knew I had a few hours to myself.

I walked past the easel on the way to my desk and paused as the thought, “I should paint,” entered my mind. I had tons of emotions swirling in my head and body, held in stasis because I did not want to experience them on this day of moms, which probably needed to be expressed. And, without painting, I could not finish the rant/essay I started earlier in the day.

I made the decision to paint and went upstairs to change into my painting clothes. While putting on my painting overalls, I asked myself how I felt about my moms on this day of celebration. Well, it was a quick answer: angry! And then I asked myself what color that was, and my answer was fire. Red hot fire.

But there was no way I would make them the focus of my painting. This was about me, not them. My loss of a true mother, loss of a happy childhood, and loss of myself. Just so much loss. So the question is, what color is my loss? I would not have thought this, but green came to mind as soon as I asked the question. Go figure. And then adding red, well, that makes it Christmas, The Witch’s and my Mom’s favorite holiday. Damn.

So I set out to paint, knowing green was my starting color and red, or maybe reddish pink, would be involved. I would know more when the paint hit the canvas, and I was curious to see what this painting had in store for me.

I always paint to music, and it is as much a part of my painting as the actual paints are. Rich was sleeping, so blasting my tunes was not an option. I had to use my AirPods instead. Hearing the music “in my ears” makes me feel it is being played just for me, and it seems to integrate itself into my brain as I listen. It is a very cool experience.

So, what to listen to for an emotionally charged painting about my moms? Well, both of them loved Barbra Streisand (as do I), so I chose the album that was very much the soundtrack of my late teen years: Yentl. Yes, I know, weird. I was seventeen when it came out, and I went to see the movie with The Witch, who cried the entire way through the movie while mumbling something about missing her beloved father. If only she had one tenth of that love for me.

Nonetheless, the music and themes from that movie embodied me in ways I still do not understand. And I knew, to find the truth, to process the pain of my moms, I needed to paint to the music of Yentl.

So I did.

I added various greens to my palette along with raw umber and white. I hit play on my phone, and the first song on the album, Where Is It Written, began to play. As soon as I heard the first notes, the floodgate opened, and intense memories and emotions overwhelmed me as I put the first strokes of green on the canvas. It was magical and terrifying at the same time.

I was angry and sad, and I put that all on the canvas with every stroke of my paint spatula. When I first saw the movie and heard Yentl’s music, it spoke to me in a way no other music had. The lyrics echoed my lifelong struggle to understand who I was, what I wanted, and why I felt so lonely and unloved.

“Tell me where, where is it written what it is I’m meant to be? That I can dare to have the chance to pick the fruit of every tree, or have my share of every sweet imagined possibility. Just tell me where, tell me where.”

As I heard the words that brought me hope over 40 years ago, I took every bit of pain and anger I felt toward The Witch and put them on the canvas, as the word ‘why’ circled in my brain. I will never know why, but back then, understanding why was the fuel that set me on my path into adulthood. I had to figure out why two women, one who discarded me and the other who tormented me, would do such a thing to me. Did I deserve it? I surely felt that way, and I have spent my entire life trying to atone for it.

Work in progress, layer one or so.

After I attacked the canvas with the dark green, I used a darker green to add some depth and interest.

Second layer.

Another song on the album, Papa Can You Hear Me, is the one that gutted The Witch in the theater. She had lost her dad a year or so before that. Up to that point in my life, the only father I knew was my adoptive one, The Tree, and he was not a father in any way, shape, or form. I only understood this song emotionally, through the eyes of Yentl, not through my own longing for a lost father. But, nonetheless, hearing the song while painting intensified my feelings, and all that emotion was put onto the canvas.

I moved through the album as I moved through my painting. I listened, I remembered, I cried, and most importantly, I processed emotions that had been buried inside me for years.

When No Wonder played (a song about trying to understand why you are not as worthy as others), I was immediately taken back to my late teens and felt the pain of trying to belong, as I did way too often back then. It was a powerful moment that played out between my memory, the canvas, and the beautiful words singing in my ears. And in those moments, I realized I no longer feel that way about myself. Sure, I’m still a weirdo who seems to stand out where others fit in, but I am proud of it now, and know my weirdness makes me unique and is a large part of who I am. And, finally, after nearly 60 years, I am beginning to like who I am.

I added a beautiful, almost fluorescent light green to the canvas, filling in the spaces around the darker greens. The color made me smile, even as tears ran down my face. Although the thoughts and emotions brought me pain, I felt in the entirety of my body that this painting session was releasing something that had been buried in me for a very long time. I could feel the past release and leave my body. I was healing. Finally.

I continued adding white, light green, darker green, and even some really dark green paint to the canvas. I was getting closer to the “resolution” phase of the process that every painting takes me to once all the emotion is expressed. Now I am ready to leave the tension behind, and mark-making allows me to start down the path to a better place.

The mark-making begins!

I started my mark-making by adding circles of varying shades of green and white. I was nearing the end of the second side of the album as I began adding more marks with a circle stencil, and then, even though I was not sure it would work out, I used a leaf stencil to add leaves to various areas of the canvas. I was very happy to be happy with how they turned out. Now, it was time to bring in the moms.

And right on cue, A Piece of Sky started playing. My favorite song on the album is hopeful and helped me through some really tough times in my life.

I mixed a reddish-pink and grabbed a star-like piece of jewelry glued to a stick. I dipped the star in the paint and then pressed it on the canvas, leaving a cool star-like mark, thick with paint. I loved how pink worked with the green on the canvas and knew I wanted to add even more pink.

Now, as I listen to the lyrics of my anthem song, I realize it is no longer a song about what is possible for me, but a song that describes how I have lived my life so far.

I have realized amazing things because I had the courage to fly.

I found the pleasures where danger lies.

I have a voice now.

I have a choice now.

And with all there was, I didn’t settle for just a piece of sky.

I feel so much gratitude for my enduring quest for healing, and I am amazed by this realization. I would never have arrived here without my paint-and-write process.

Yentl was over, and I moved to Glee music I had not listened to in years and finished the painting. I added “scratches” using the pastry cutter, and as I stood staring at them, I felt something was missing. Two moms need two sets of scratches, so I added another set of scratches to signify scratching my way back twice. And I just realized I missed doing that to one set of scratches. Let’s see if anyone notices.

After the painting was done, I felt in every part of my body that this was a significant emotional journey that I had never experienced before. I felt changed, and, more importantly, healed.

A transformative painting session left me with a smile on my face.

I was surprised that the painting session brought up more of The Witch than my Mom, but I guess I had more to process and release about her than I realized. But I do feel the process of writing, painting, and then writing again, also included my Mom. I will not delude myself by saying I have processed all there is to process when it comes to my Mom—not even close. But, I can say, I am beginning to reframe our thirty years together in a way that honors what I did get from her, and not just what I didn’t. I am still very mad at her about the dad thing, but I know in time, and with more writing and painting, I will process that as well.

One of the biggest takeaways from painting and writing about The Deep Pain of Moms Lost is that I emotionally realized that they are both gone now. I no longer need to carry the weight of trying to please them in exchange for their love. I am free from that weight, and because of that, I can head down the path of healing with more conviction and confidence.

After years of chasing whys, I now know that it is a rare thing to really understand one’s past, especially the motivations of others. I still want to understand it, but now I don’t feel like my life or my happiness depends on it. And that realization is all the freedom I need, for now.

The Deep Pain of Moms Lost is available as an original painting and fine art prints.

Thank you for being on the journey with me.

Victoria