Page 29 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby

“We have time to figure it out,” I remind them both, gazing down at Lyra, who has fallen asleep in my arms as tiny sparks of magic occasionally dance across her silver-white hair. “She’s only three weeks old.”

“Three weeks and already manipulating gravitational fields,” murmurs my mother, unable to completely suppress her pride.

***

THIS BECOMES THE PATTERNof our days—my mother suggesting increasingly structured approaches to Lyra’s magical development, Atlas advocating for a more organic, philosophical path, and me attempting to find balance between their perspectives while focusing on the immediate needs of a newborn with unpredictable magical abilities.

To my surprise, my mother extends her stay beyond the originally planned month, explaining that “proper magical foundations require consistent guidance.” I suspect her reluctance to leave has less to do with concern for Lyra’s magical education and more with the unexpected bond she’s formed with her granddaughter, but I don’t challenge her reasoning.

Instead, our household settles into a surprisingly functional routine. Atlas continues managing Fae Fitness, though he adjusts his schedule to be home more. My mother takes over much of the magical childcare during morning hours, implementing what she calls “foundational sensory exercises” that seem suspiciously like simply talking to Lyra about different magical theories while showing her enchanted objects.

I gradually return to my own work, brewing simple potions and preparing herbal remedies at a small workspace Atlas set up in our kitchen before transitioning to a few afternoons a week at the shop. I haven’t yet had time for more matchmaking, but I leave that in the hands of the other witches and beings in Evershift Haven, at least for the time being.

Whatever I’m doing, if it’s at home, Lyra watches from a specially designed bassinet that hovers near my workbench, occasionally causing ingredients to float or bottles to glow when something catches her interest.

“She has your intuition for herbal combinations,” my mother says one afternoon, watching as Lyra’s magic causes a sprig of lavender to dance in harmony with a vial of moonstone essence—ingredients that do indeed work well together. “I always said your instinctive approach to potion-making was your strongest magical talent.”

The compliment, delivered in my mother’s matter-of-fact tone, nearly causes me to drop the mortar and pestle I’m holding. “You did?” I ask, unable to recall a single instance when she praised my intuitive brewing methods.

“Of course,” she says, genuinely surprised by my reaction. “Why do you think I insisted you continue with advanced potions despite your resistance? Your natural talent was obvious.”

“I thought you were just being controlling.”

My mother purses her lips. “Perhaps my methods of encouragement were somewhat...firm, but the talent was undeniable.”

This glimpse into my mother’s thought process—the revelation that what I interpreted as criticism might have been her version of support—shifts something fundamental in my understanding of our relationship. It’s not enough to erase years of feeling inadequate under her exacting standards, but enough to see her actions in a slightly different light.

That evening, as Atlas rocks Lyra to sleep while softly reciting Socratic dialogues, his version of bedtime stories, I find my mother in the garden, carefully harvesting moonflowers for a protective tincture she’s been preparing.

“Need help?” I offer, joining her in the silvery light of the waxing moon.

She hands me a small pair of enchanted shears without comment, and for a while, we work in companionable silence, our movements synchronized from years of similar shared tasks during my childhood.

“I’ve been thinking,” my mother says eventually, “About what the midwife said regarding Lyra’s unusual magical integration.”

“Mmm?” I encourage, carefully trimming a perfect bloom.

“It occurs to me that her ability to naturally harmonize different magical signatures might be influenced by her environment.” My mother gestures vaguely toward our home, where warm light spills from the windows. “Specifically, by witnessing the way various magical approaches can complement each other rather than compete.”

I pause in my harvesting, surprised by this insight. “You mean because she sees witch magic and troll magic working together?”

“And different styles of witchcraft. Your intuitive approach, and my structured techniques. Perhaps the combination creates a more balanced magical foundation than either would alone.”

The admission costs her something—I can see it in the slight stiffness of her posture—but the fact that she’s made it at all feels monumental.

“That’s...remarkably philosophical of you, Mother.”

“Don’t tell your husband,” she says dryly. “I’ll never hear the end of it.”

I laugh, and after a moment, my mother’s lips twitch in what might almost be a smile.

“I’m glad you stayed.” The words emerge before I can overthink them. “It’s been good for Lyra, and for me.”

My mother doesn’t respond immediately, but when she does, her voice holds an unfamiliar softness. “I’ve learned some things as well. Your Atlas is not what I expected.”

“He surprises people that way.”

“He’s a good father and clearly devoted to you both. His magical knowledge is also more extensive than I anticipated.”

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