Then we walked down a hallway and there was a sign that read, THE ST. LOUIS ART MUSEUM IS PROUD TO HONOR CLAUDE MONET. EXHIBITION ON LOAN FROM THE NATIONAL GALLERY OF ART, WASHINGTON, DC. There was a security guard at the entrance who smiled and nodded at us as we walked in.

I gasped. Monet was my mom’s absolute favorite artist. When I walked into the exhibition, I felt like I was dreaming.

“I’m sure your mom must have talked about Monet to you,” Mimi said, smiling.

“Oh, you know, just… all the time,” I said. “I know he painted by observing and using his own thoughts and emotions in his art, instead of drawing things exactly as they were in real life. Is that right?”

Ellen was nodding. She was also smiling from ear to ear.

“Very good! Yes, it’s called impressionism, Lindsay,” she said.

I walked over to one painting that caught my eye. It was called Palazzo da Mula, Venice. It was wonderful. I felt as if I could dip my hand into the cool blue water.

“Mom always talked about Monet and the way he painted water,” I said.

Mimi tapped me on the shoulder. “Let me show you one of your mom’s favorites,” she said.

It was called Woman with a Parasol—Madame Monet and Her Son. It was a woman walking through a field of flowers, holding a parasol, with a little boy walking close to her.

As I looked at it, I took a deep breath.

“It’s so… soothing, isn’t it?” I said. “The puffy white clouds, the way her scarf is gently blowing in the breeze… I love how everything is so soft, and a little blurry.” I gave a little happy sigh. “I could look at this for hours.”

“You know, when Monet was alive, his work was criticized,” Ellen said.

“Why?” I said. “How could someone not like this?” I pointed to the painting.

“Some critics said Monet’s work was blurry not by choice, but because his eyesight was failing,” Ellen explained. She shook her head. “They just wanted to criticize his work, instead of seeing the beauty behind it.” She sighed. “Monet is one of my favorites too.”

“Which goes to show you should do whatever you want when it comes to art,” Mimi said. “Paint how you love to paint, write what you love to write, sing what you want to sing!”

She turned to me. “The point is, you’re never going to make everybody happy, Lindsay, so it’s important that you make you happy.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Mimi.”

Of course all this made me think of my mom. She always painted what made her happy. I pictured her sitting by her easel, softly humming as she mixed colors from her palette.