Page 11 of Love Spells: And Other Non-Refundable Magic

“That’s not me anymore, Mamá,” I mutter, and then I do the same thing she’s done for years—try to busy myself with anything that doesn’t need doing so that I can avoid her judgy gaze. “I don’t know why you keep trying.”

My mother sighs, then turns around to pour hot water into her travel mug and steep the bag a few times. Steam curls upwards, and she watches it go, almost as if she’s searching for the right words. “What else would I do?”

“I don’t know?” It comes out as a question, even though it’s not. I really don’t know what else she would do. Ever since my dad left her—us—when Fausto was a baby and I was in my teens, she’s been chasing this. Some sort of happy ending, as if she isn’t enough for herself. As if she is so annoyed by her mere presence that she needs to always be with someone by her side.

“Neither do I, hija.” She shrugs. “So I choose hope.”

I lean back against the counter. “I don’t think⁠—”

“I guess I’m not as different as your customers, after all.”

She reaches for my hand again, then tosses the used tea bag into the sink, tightens the lid, and heads toward the hallway. “Don’t stay up until two answering witch messages again, Flora.”

“I’m in my thirties!”

“Yeah, but you get cranky when you don’t sleep, and I’m not looking forward to that this weekend.” Her steps are quick as she grabs her things from the hallway. “I love you.”

I stand alone in the kitchen for another moment before carrying my food to the dining table. My laptop waits where I left it yesterday, in the corner closest to the wall with all my store paperwork—a pile of order slips for candles and crystals, and a few shipping labels for some of the orders I packed last night.

So do twenty-three unread messages. And the one custom request that, for reasons I still can’t explain, I’ve been thinking about all day.

Almost running on repeat since this morning.

I read the first paragraph again, then the whole thing twice for good measure.

I’ve noticed throughout the years since I’ve started with this shop that some people write exactly the way they speak. Others become entirely different people the moment they realize no one is looking at them.

The interesting ones exist somewhere in between, where vulnerability floats and expresses itself through self-deprecation or in humor.

This one in particular—she hides every single one of her feelings in broad daylight.

One says, “I hope you laugh.”

The other says, “Please laugh before you realize how much this hurts.”

I rest my elbow on the table and keep reading. Finally, I open the message box and type:

“Hello, and thank you for trusting me with something that was probably much easier to joke about than to admit.”

I pause. Read it once and decide to leave it. If she’s being vulnerable, then I can be vulnerable, too.

“I don’t think you’re cursed,” I continue. Simple. Almost a fact, if she chooses to believe me. “And while I can’t promise what this ritual will or won’t bring into your life, I do think there’s value in creating space to notice what you’ve been telling yourself about love.”

I hesitate before typing the next sentence, because it might feel too personal. Then again, that’s why she ordered the custom request instead of the standard listing.

“You speak to yourself much more harshly than you speak about anyone else in your story.”

I read the sentence three times before deciding not to soften it. Sometimes, kindness isn’t making something gentler, easier to swallow. Sometimes it’s refusing to let someone keep believing the cruelest version of themselves.

I lean back in my chair and glance at the stack of papers and the loose beads in the ceramic bowl on top of them. When customers imagine The Third Fairy, I suspect they picture incense, moonlight, and a mysterious person reciting even more mysterious incantations.

The reality is closer to a label printer that jams more times than it doesn’t, a dining room littered with loose sheets of paper, and a desk in my room that hasn’t been cleared in two years, covered in all sorts of crystals and beads and candles and flat shipping boxes.

The cursor continues blinking patiently on the reply screen.

“I will be mailing you a custom bracelet, and my hope is you wear it consistently and with intention. The crystals—clear and rose quartz and moonstone—were specifically chosen as a reminder to move through this season with openness instead of fear.”

I smile.