I wasn’t sure whether I enjoyed being a prop in my children’s elaborate games or if motherhood had simply worn down my resistance to the point of surrender. Sophie—three years old and already capable of turning mischief into an art form—flickered from one side of me to the other like a tiny, delighted phantom. Tara, balanced in my arms and warm against my chest, followed her sister’s every move with the fierce concentration of someone twice her age. At eleven months, she had discovered that peekaboo was less a game and more a calling.

Sophie would lean in, giggle, wait for Tara’s eyes to meet hers, then dart to the opposite side as if propelled by pure joy. Tara pitched her little body in pursuit each time, stretching so far over my arm that I began calculating the odds of her simply launching herself into the void. They had been at this for fifteen relentless minutes, and my arms—traitorous, trembling things—had long since abandoned the fight. It was seven in the morning. No one with a pulse should be required to endure this level of athletic parenting at such an hour.

In her enthusiasm, Sophie hadn’t noticed she was slowly dragging my pajama pants southward. This felt particularly unfair given the rest of my condition: hair unbrushed for a questionable number of days, clothes that had lost the right to be called clean, and the general aura of someone who had only barely survived the night. The last thing I needed was to add “accidental pantsing by a preschooler” to my morning résumé.

Maybe it was the half-sleep I’d survived on—Tara, ever generous, had provided another night of broken rest—but I ignored the strange warmth creeping through my legs. It was that pins-and-needles sensation, the kind you get when a limb falls asleep and then decides to rejoin the living. I was too busy watching the girls, too focused on coaxing my brain into something resembling consciousness.

I didn’t notice Adam until he was already sitting on the bench by the garage door, the place where he always paused to tug on his boots. He studied the girls as they dissolved into giggles, then glanced at me. Then he glanced again. And again, with the careful suspicion of a man checking whether reality was glitching.

“You’re… see-through,” he said.

I looked down, and my stomach dropped.

My legs were translucent. Not faintly. Not subtly. I could see the floor through them. I could also see Sophie making increasingly dramatic faces through my legs as she continued the game, entirely delighted by this new and improved version of peekaboo. Tara squealed, thrilled by the development.

Adam’s voice stayed steady—almost annoyingly so. His composure made the situation worse. He was a wizard, after all, and the kids had inherited his magic. I, meanwhile, was the only fully non-magical being in the house, which was deeply irritating. I had the sudden, unreasonable urge to fling a small fireball at him. Or a spitball. I would have settled for anything.

Sophie, meanwhile, had fully embraced the situation. The game continued, only now she darted behind my transparent legs, pulling faces with the exaggerated commitment of a seasoned performer. Tara found this hilarious and demanded it go on forever.

“Please tell me you’ll fix me before you leave,” I said, the words coming out more like a plea than I intended.

Adam finished pulling on his boots and shrugged into his coat. He laughed softly, which was not reassuring. I knew that laugh. He was considering leaving me like this. It would have been funny—if it were anyone else. Being outnumbered by children while partially invisible felt deeply unfair.

I opened my mouth to make a sharp comment, but Adam crossed the room before I could deploy it.

He cupped my face, firm but gentle, his thumbs warm against my cheeks, and kissed my forehead. The familiar flutter hit me despite the years, the children, and the fact that I was only partially solid. I closed my eyes and breathed him in—cedarwood, vanilla, and the quiet comfort of him.

Then he kissed me properly, slow and certain, and for a moment the room tilted. I almost forgot I was holding Tara—until she attempted to twist out of my arms, still determined to keep the game going. Her focus was admirable for an eleven-month-old.

“I’ll see you later,” Adam said. Then, raising his voice, “Anyone else want hugs or kisses before I leave?”

Sophie abandoned her game to sprint toward him for a hug. James appeared from the dining room at full speed, as if summoned by instinct. I took the opportunity to look down at myself again—and froze.

I was solid again.

I patted my legs, just to be sure. Definitely opaque. Relief washed over me, quickly followed by realization. Sophie. Of course it had been Sophie. Adam hadn’t fixed it so much as neutralized it—like turning down the volume on a spell mid-song. It was both sweet and wildly impressive. There were many reasons I’d married him. This was apparently one of them.

“Why’d you kiss her to remove it when you could’ve just smacked her on the bottom?” Clark asked from the couch, where he was wiping his face as part of his questionable morning routine.

“You know the kids can hear you,” Adam said, giving each child one last hug.

“You know I’m right.”

“I don’t have to feed him, do I?” I asked, stealing one more kiss as Adam headed for the garage door. I followed him for a few extra seconds, squeezing in the last moment before the car started.

Making sure Adam could hear him, Clark called out, “You don’t need to feed me. I can live off the kids’ crumbs on the floor.”

“Can I stuff him?” Monica asked.

“Love you. See you tonight,” Adam called back as the car engine turned over.