Page 30 of Barbells, Broomsticks & A Baby
Coming from my mother, this is practically a declaration of adoration. I accept it as the peace offering it is.
“Perhaps I could return periodically,” she says, focusing intently on a particularly perfect moonflower. “For short visits. To assist with Lyra’s magical development as she grows.”
“I’d like that,” I say honestly. “Lyra should know her grandmother.”
The conversation shifts to lighter topics—the best methods for preserving moonflower essence, and the magical properties of herbs grown under different lunar phases—but something has definitively changed between us. It’s not a complete transformation, but a step toward mutual understanding that seemed impossible just months ago.
When we return to the house, arms full of silver-glowing blooms, we find Atlas in the nursery, Lyra asleep on his broad stone chest as he sits in the oversized rocking chair my mother enchanted to support his weight.
“She wouldn’t settle in the crib,” he whispers, his large hand gently patting our daughter’s back. “Apparently, philosophical discussions about the nature of reality make excellent lullabies.”
My mother shakes her head, but there’s no real disapproval in the gesture. “At least wait until she’s walking before introducing existentialist theories,” she murmurs. “Magical development follows cognitive pathways.”
“Of course,” he says solemnly. “We’ll stick to basic metaphysics for now.”
To my delight, my mother actually rolls her eyes, a surprisingly human gesture from someone who prides herself on perfect composure.
“I’ll prepare the moonflower tincture,” she announces, taking the harvested blooms from my arms. “It needs to steep under direct moonlight for maximum potency.”
As she leaves, Atlas carefully shifts Lyra to a more comfortable position. Our daughter sighs in her sleep, and tiny motes of silver-purple light dance above her head, forming shapes that look remarkably like the constellations visible through the nursery window.
“Your mother has been almost pleasant today,” he says quietly. “Should I be concerned about potential enchantment or identity theft?”
“Very funny.” I settle onto the ottoman beside his chair. “I think she’s finally coming to terms with us—this family, our choices...all of it.”
“Ah.” Atlas nods. “People change, especially when confronted with new experiences and relationships.”
“Like becoming a grandmother,” I say.
“Exactly. Roles redefine us in ways we can’t anticipate.” He looks down at Lyra with tender adoration. “Just as becoming parents has changed us.”
“For the better, I hope.”
“Undoubtedly. As Nietzsche observed—”
“If you quote Nietzsche right now, I will turn you into a wishing well,” I say with a wink.
Atlas chuckles softly. “Fair enough, but I maintain philosophers have much to teach us about child-rearing.”
“Save it for your father-daughter lectures.” I reach out to stroke Lyra’s silky hair. “I’m sure she’ll be appropriately philosophical by the time she can speak full sentences.”
As if sensing she’s the topic of discussion, Lyra stirs slightly in her sleep, her tiny fingers flexing against Atlas’s chest. A small burst of magic escapes her, causing the stars painted on the nursery ceiling to briefly animate, shooting tiny comets across the magical constellations.
“She’s going to be extraordinary,” I whisper, watching the magical display.
“She already is. As are you.”
He reaches for my hand, his stone fingers warm and gentle against mine. As our hands connect, our magical signatures respond, creating a soft glow where skin meets stone—purple witch-light and silver earth magic combining to form a warm illumination that perfectly matches the color of our daughter’s magical aura.
In that moment of perfect harmony, with my husband beside me, our daughter sleeping peacefully between us, and even my mother finding her place in our unconventional family, I feel a completeness I never thought possible.
As the enchanted stars continue their slow dance across our nursery ceiling, I silently thank whatever twist of fate or magical accident led me to walk into Fae Fitness that day, seeking troll sweat for a fertility potion. Some might call it coincidence. Others might call it destiny.
Atlas would undoubtedly point out, citing yet another ancient philosopher whose name I’ve already forgotten—perhaps it’s simply the natural order of the universe bringing together exactly the right elements at exactly the right time to create a new kind of magic.
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