Too big, too bulky, too tiny. If I was going to buy another cleaning tool I wanted to be sure Monica didn’t just want a steamer.
She needed it.
No—worse than that. She had reached the stage where she could already picture herself using it, which meant resistance was futile.
It all started after a late-night scroll through LenseLife, where one of her favorite cleaning-hack accounts casually demonstrated a steamer gliding across a kitchen floor like it was performing a miracle. No chemicals. No scrubbing. Just steam and smug efficiency.
By the time the video ended, Monica was convinced. Not impulsively convinced—responsibly convinced. The kind of convinced that required research.
While James and Sophie were sprawled on the far end of the couch, hypnotized by a movie, and Tara slept in her crib like a tiny, ticking noise bomb, Monica tried to find the original post again. She needed specifics. Brand. Model. Battery life. Exact features.
This wasn’t about shopping.
This was about damage control.
Her husband Adam had a habit of “helping” when she wanted something. Helping, in Adam’s mind, meant choosing what he thought was best. That was how she’d ended up with the industrial-strength vacuum currently living in their hall closet. It worked. It was durable. It could probably survive a minor apocalypse.
What it was not was pleasant to use.
Adam counted “lasts forever” as the highest virtue. Monica valued “doesn’t feel like I’m wrestling an appliance possessed by demons.”
She didn’t want to be ungrateful if he surprised her with a steamer. So she had to be very, very specific.
“You trying to get a new vacuum so you don’t have to push the impossible tank thing around?”
Clark, Adam’s familiar, peered over her shoulder from his perch on the back of the couch. His tail flicked with judgment.
“These are steamers,” Monica said, not looking up. Her thumb scrolled steadily. “Apparently they clean better. You don’t need chemicals. Floors. Counters. Other… things.”
Clark leaned closer, watching a video review with intense interest. His ears twitched.
“Ooo.”
“Shush,” Monica whispered. “If the kids hear that tone, they’ll think I’m looking at toys.”
James and Sophie were unusually quiet, eyes glued to the screen. Monica treasured moments like this. The house held its breath when Tara slept. You’d think the youngest of three loud siblings would be immune to noise. She wasn’t. One sharp sound and the nap was over.
“That one looks promising,” Clark said.
“It’s cordless and lightweight,” Monica murmured. “But the battery’s terrible. And the water tank is tiny.”
“With the amount of food your children fuse to the floor,” Clark said solemnly, “that seems irresponsible.”
She scrolled to more expensive options.
Clark watched another clip, then sighed dramatically. “You really do need one of these.”
Monica glanced at him. “Because?”
“Because you’re terrible at cleaning floors.”
She stared.
“You miss spots,” he continued. “You smear crumbs instead of removing them. And you refuse to use magic.”
“I can’t use magic.”
“Details.”
She tapped her phone against her knee. “You’re one to talk. You literally only know cleaning spells, and you’re still bad at them.”
“I am adequate.”
“You once turned the kitchen tile slightly damp for three days.”
“It was a lingering enchantment.”
“And whose job was it to fix that?”
Clark hesitated. “Supervision is a valid contribution.”
“I call that incompetence.”
“I call it delegation.”
Monica smirked. “You’re just jealous that I need a steamer because you can’t magically clean properly.”
Clark sniffed, wounded. “Tragic for us all.”
Over the next few days, Monica continued her research—subtly, she told herself. Clark, however, became alarmingly supportive. A strange shift from their usual relationship of mutual tolerance.
If she passed the bathroom, Clark would remark, “A steamer could really help with that urine smell. Until someone improves his aim.”
When she washed dishes, he surveyed the floor. “These tiles need a deep steam clean. Possibly several times a week.”
That comment earned him a blast from the faucet.
About a week later, after the kids were in bed, Monica lounged on the couch rewatching a familiar show. Clark sat in her lap as she compared steamers—again.
“You ever going to buy it,” Adam said from behind her, “or just pine forever?”
Monica jumped. Clark latched on with claws. Both screamed.
She untangled herself, glaring at them equally. “I was making sure it was the right one.”
“You picked it days ago,” Adam said, sitting beside her.
Her mouth opened. Closed. No defense arrived. He was right. Asking how he knew would be pointless. After seven years, he simply knew her.
“Just buy it,” Adam said gently. “So I don’t have to buy one for you to end the suffering. I know you hate the vacuum.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“Yes you do. When I enchanted it to bark at large debris, you called that an improvement.”
“It was an improvement,” Monica muttered. The vacuum still annoyed her, but at least now it barked indignantly at chair legs. The moment it broke, though, she was choosing the replacement herself.
“I enjoy it too,” Clark said. “Watching her struggle. And the barking.”
Monica lifted him off her lap and deposited him on the other side of the couch.
Adam cupped her cheek. “If you need something, get it. Don’t be nervous. If you don’t like it, that’s okay.”
Her eyes burned. This—this—was why she chose him every day.
“Buy it!” Clark whined from his pillow. “Then tell me when it arrives so I know how much less I’ll have to clean!”
Witch, Please 
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