There’s only one answer to that. “No, ma’am.” Now seems like the moment to change the subject. I take a sip of coffee and smile at Mom winningly. “You’re going to MarTech today, right?”

Mom works at a magitech factory that manufactures fancy televisions. It’s the best job in magical technology she can get with her transfiguration degree, since she doesn’t have a magical license. She spends her days troubleshooting problems with the magic encoded in the TVs and transfiguring broken machinery so it works.

“Yeah,” Mom says. Her eyes slide over to Dad. “Did I tell you I’m training the new girl this afternoon?”

“Hm.” Dad takes a long drink from his coffee cup and raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like manager work.”

Mom lets out a little snort. “I know.”

“They giving you a raise?”

“What do you think?” Mom says, and they both chuckle quietly.

Mom’s job isn’t the best. She makes half as much as her manager but does twice the work, because he has a magical license from an accredited university. He likes to remind her that, without him, the unlicensed members of their team wouldn’t be legally allowed to do any transfiguration because it’s higher-level work. Mom is literally better at transfiguration than him. And even though she basically does his job for him too, she’ll never get to be a manager without a license.

“What time do you start work?” I ask.

“One,” Mom says. She sinks into her seat at our kitchen table and starts in on her own breakfast. Before she takes a bite, I activate my magic sight and nudge at the magic in her oatmeal to warm it up for her. It’s been sitting there awhile, if the slow magic flows in it are anything to go off of.

“Bus day?” I say sympathetically.

“Bus day.” She sighs.

Boca Raton is a driving town. Mostly rich retirees live here, and walking definitely isn’t their primary way of getting anywhere. The network of floating roads is basically the only way to get around, unless you have a broom and can fly off-road. We only have one car, and Dad drives it to work, so when Mom is scheduled for shifts in the middle of the day, she has to struggle through Boca’s depressing public transport situation.

“You know . . .” I drag out the words and grin at Mom mischievously. “If you got a broom, you wouldn’t have to take the bus anymore.”

“What would I look like on a broom?” She snorts. “Midlife-Crisis Mom? That’s what you want your mother to look like?”

“You would look very cool on a broom, honey,” Dad says, as cheesy as anything.

“I would look very dead on a broom,” she shoots back, which doesn’t even make sense. Like, okay, they’re slightly dangerous. But she’s not going to spontaneously die while riding one.