2023 was a tough year for beloved actor Kevin Costner. After 18 years, he and his wife Christine Baumgartner divorced.
It has been reported that it was Baumgartner who filed for a divorce, which left the Yellowstone star rather shocked by his now ex-wife’s sudden decision.
People close to the couple, however, claim that Baumgartner hated the fact that Costner was working long hours and was away from home for longer periods of time. “During filming, Kevin is not around very much. His absence has been very hard for her,” a source reportedly said.
“Christine doesn’t want him to throw himself into another project. He has been obsessed with filming Horizon since last year. She wasn’t happy about it,” a source reported.
“At times, his career has taken precedence over his home life,” another source added.
“All of this success and excitement over the new project probably took his attention away from his family more than he realized. Since it didn’t look like that would change and likely could get worse, it caused tension at home,” the source added.
After the initial shock and the ugly child support battle, Costner was seen with another woman, singer Jewel.
The two were recently seen together at a tennis event on Richard Branson’s Necker Island for the Inspiring Children Foundation.
As per TMZ, the two took a plane to the Caribbean and spent nearly a week together.
An insider told the magazine, “There was definitely something going on,” confirming that the pair indeed vacationed in the Caribbean together.
Well, no matter how hard he tries to stay away from the spotlight, that’s not an easy thing to do, especially if you are as famous as Costner is.
During the weekend, after presenting an award at the Golden Globes, Costner became a discussion topic. He, alongside America Ferrera, presented the award for Best Female Actor in a Television Series: Musical or Comedy (The Bear’s Ayo Edebiri won).
At one moment, Costner quoted Ferrera’s monologue from the hit movie Barbie, and that triggered loud applause.
“You know, you have a scene that I really love,” Costner stated on stage. “I think a lot of people enjoy that scene. ‘It’s simply difficult to be a woman.’ You’re aware that ‘You’re so attractive.’ You’re so brilliant, and it hurts me that you don’t believe you’re good enough. “That was pretty good.”
Ferrera’s reply was: “Did you, Kevin Costner, memorize my monologue about womanhood from Barbie?”
He confessed that he didn’t really memorize the entire thing but went on to say, “But it’s an important message, and it always serves to remind me what’s possible in cinema. It simply reminds me that when we take our time, get it right, and cinema is at its best, it can be about moments you’ll never forget.”
The duo’s back-and-forth was praised and appreciated by the audience.
“I was laughing so hard with Kevin Costner trying to be serious…and aging well!” “Yay America!” one individual wrote.
“He worked as much on that segment as he did on his english accent in Robin Hood,” another person said.
“Lmao he’s trying so hard to stay serious ,” a third said.
You can take a look at Costner and Ferrera’s award presentation below.
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Buttons and Memories
I miss my mom. I used to push all the buttons just as she would walk down the aisle, a mischievous glint in my eye. Each time we visited the grocery store, I’d dash ahead, my small fingers dancing over the colorful buttons of the self-checkout machine. With each beep, she’d turn around, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You little rascal! One day, you’re going to break it!” she’d say, shaking her head, but her smile would give her away. Those moments were filled with laughter and light, the kind of memories that could brighten even the dullest days.
Since her passing, the grocery store has become a hollow place for me. I walk through, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft whoosh, and I feel the weight of the emptiness settle in my chest. The shelves filled with brightly packaged goods seem to mock my solitude. I can still hear her voice, echoing in my mind, reminding me to pick up my favorite snacks or to try a new recipe. I wander through the aisles, my heart heavy, searching for a piece of her in every corner.
I remember how she would linger by the produce, inspecting the apples with care, always choosing the shiniest ones. “The best things in life are worth taking a moment to choose,” she would say, her hands gently brushing over the fruit. Now, I find myself standing there, staring at the apples, unable to choose. They all seem dull and lifeless without her touch.
The self-checkout machines are still there, their buttons waiting to be pressed, but they feel like a cruel reminder of what I’ve lost. I can’t bring myself to push them anymore. The last time I stood in front of one, the memories flooded back. I could almost hear her laughter, feel her presence beside me. But it was just a memory, fleeting and painful.
Every week, I return to the store, hoping that somehow it will feel different, that I’ll find a way to connect with her again. But the aisles remain unchanged, their fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a persistent reminder of my loneliness. I see other families laughing and chatting, and I feel like an outsider looking in on a world that no longer includes me.
One evening, as I walked past the cereal aisle, I spotted a box of her favorite brand. It was decorated with bright colors and cheerful characters, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. I hesitated for a moment, then reached out and grabbed it, a sudden rush of nostalgia washing over me. I could almost see her standing beside me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Let’s get it! We can make our special breakfast tomorrow!”
With the box cradled in my arms, I made my way to the checkout. I felt a warmth spreading through me, the kind of warmth that comes from cherished memories. But as I stood there, scanning the items and watching the screen flash numbers, I realized that I was alone. The laughter we shared, the spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen, all of it felt like a distant dream.
When I got home, I placed the box on the kitchen counter, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. I thought about making pancakes, just like we used to, the kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla and maple syrup. I reached for my phone to call her, to share the news, but my heart sank as reality set in. There would be no more calls, no more laughter echoing through the house.
That night, I sat in the dark, the box of cereal beside me, feeling the weight of my grief settle in. I poured myself a bowl, the sound of the cereal hitting the milk breaking the silence. As I took the first bite, tears streamed down my cheeks. Each crunch reminded me of the moments we had shared, and I felt an ache in my chest for the warmth of her presence.
“I miss you, Mom,” I whispered into the stillness of the room. “I wish I could press all the buttons just one more time, hear you laugh, feel your hand in mine.”
But the buttons would remain untouched, just as the aisles of the grocery store would remain silent, a reflection of the emptiness I felt inside. And in that moment, I realized that while the world continued to move forward, I would always carry her with me, a bittersweet reminder of the love that once filled my life.
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