Monica looked up at her children, who were currently on the ceiling eating crackers. Crumbs drifted down like fresh snow.
They were in the dining room, where Monica had been attempting to sweep—a pointless effort now. The trash bin was already full of crumbs, and the air smelled faintly of lavender, the cleaning product she’d just used.
James, the oldest at four, was sweetly trying to feed his baby sister, Tara, who was wiggling and babbling like this was the best day of her life. The middle child, Sophie—three years old, perpetually dressed in pink, and powered entirely by snacks and fun—was there mostly for the chaos.
Monica sighed. This wasn’t exactly how she’d pictured motherhood. Tantrums? Sure. Chaos? Expected. But magic? And anti-gravity? That hadn’t been in the brochure. When she married a wizard, she thought she was signing up for a little whimsy—maybe an enchanted broom ride or two—not zero-gravity snack time.
Being the only non-magical one in the house wasn’t fun. It was like trying to control the weather without a single shelter for the storm.
The mess didn’t bother her. She’d long since made peace with mysterious glitter, levitating cereal, and rooms that stayed clean for about thirty-seven seconds. Toys followed her like heat-seeking missiles, and she’d given up trying to fight physics—or magic—on that front.
What worried her now was the potential for electrocution from the chandelier the kids were sitting beside, or the more likely event of one falling and cracking a skull.
“You have a plan to get them down?” drawled Lark, the family’s magical cat.
He was perched regally on his wall-mounted cat shelf, the one they’d installed so he could look down on them properly during dinner. His orange fur gleamed, and his blue eyes were full of that smug, ancient wisdom that only cats—and tax auditors—seemed to possess.
“I always do,” Monica said, which was technically true if winging it counted as a plan. She marched into the living room, kicking toys out of the way, and returned dragging the bouncy house.
“Ah,” Lark said, tail flicking. “Improvising again.”
“Don’t start,” Monica shot back, glaring as she plugged the cord into the wall.
The fan roared to life, filling the bouncy house within seconds. The smell of warm plastic bloomed through the room—an odor that said, fun ahead, possible regrets to follow.
A flurry of movement sounded above. Tiny feet pattered across the ceiling as James and Sophie came sprinting, giggling, and bumping into each other in a race to reach the bouncy house first.
James, being older and infinitely more confident, took the dive. He hit the inflatable with a heroic thud, bounced once, and shouted, “I did it!”
Sophie followed a moment later, descending like a lazy balloon and landing with far more grace.
Monica almost relaxed—until she realized Tara wasn’t with them.
She bolted into the next room and found the baby still floating near the ceiling fan, babbling cheerfully and waving a half-dissolved cracker.
The moment Tara spotted her, her whole face lit up. Without warning, she launched herself from the ceiling like a tiny superhero, arms wide.
Monica barely caught her before impact.
“Yay,” she muttered, clutching her daughter. “You’re finally perfecting your aim.”
Lark yawned. “At this rate, you’ll need string to take them to the grocery store. You know—like balloons.”
“You think I don’t already?” Monica said, heading back to supervise bouncy time.
Witch, Please 
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