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Back Spells for Lost Things Save as PDF
Chapters (42)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Prologue
  5. – 1 – Willow
  6. – 2 – Mason
  7. – 3 – Willow
  8. – 4 – Mason
  9. – 5 – Willow
  10. – 6 – Mason
  11. – 7 – Willow
  12. – 8 – Mason
  13. – 9 – Willow
  14. – 10 – Mason
  15. – 11 – Willow
  16. – 12 – Mason
  17. – 13 – Willow
  18. – 14 – Mason
  19. – 15 – Willow
  20. – 16 – Mason
  21. – 17 – Willow
  22. – 18 – Mason
  23. – 19 – Willow
  24. – 20 – Mason
  25. – 21 – Willow
  26. – 22 – Mason
  27. – 23 – Willow
  28. – 24 – Mason
  29. – 25 – Willow
  30. – 26 – Mason
  31. – 27 – Willow
  32. – 28 – Mason
  33. – 29 – Willow
  34. – 30 – Mason
  35. – 31 – Willow
  36. – 32 – Mason
  37. – 33 – Willow
  38. – 34 – Mason
  39. Acknowledgments
  40. More from the Author
  41. About the Author
  42. ALSO BY JENNA EVANS WELCH

– 32 – Mason

I’m left staring at the scuffed white door, my brain trying to comprehend what has happened. My mother has closed the door on me. This isn’t real. She can’t mean this.

My heart surges, rages. I knock on the door, quietly, and then louder. “Mom? Mom!” This has to be a mistake. It is a mistake. She doesn’t understand the situation somehow. Then I’m hitting the door with both hands. “Mom! Open the door!”

“You!” The door behind me flies open. It’s the old woman again and she’s holding up her phone. “Get out of here. Now! I’m calling the cops.”

I can barely see; my head is buzzing, my limbs shaking, but I can’t be found by the police. My heart drags me forward, away from my mom’s door, and then suddenly my stomach lurches. I need out. Now.

Somehow I find my way out of the apartment, my chest heaving, tears pouring down my cheeks. I make it to the curb before I throw up.

And then I start to cry, harder than I ever thought I could. I cry for five-year-old me trying to hold my mom’s eyes open to show her a picture I’d made, because all I wanted was for her to be proud of me. I cry for seven-year-old me, who went to bed hungry after eating only condiments all day, because those were the only things that were in the house. I cry for nine-year-old me, sitting in the back of a foster care worker’s car, watching my mom get farther and farther away in the back window.

But most of all, I cry for today me. The one sitting on this curb.

All this time my mom has been my destination. My end goal. The thing that kept me going was believing that she was looking for me the way I was looking for her. I thought she was fighting for me, but she was hiding. I showed up at her door, and she wouldn’t even let me inside.

Maybe there are such things as signs, but if there are, my mom and I aren’t the kind of people who receive them. We’re the kind of people who struggle and suffer. Why did I think it could be different?

I sit on that curb crying until every last tear is used up, and then because I have nowhere else to go, I start to walk. My feet are heavy, my lungs burning from the exhaust and fumes from passing cars. I cross an overpass, then an intersection, making my way into a run-down park. I have maybe seven hours before it’s dark, but then what will I do? Walk the streets all night? Try to find a youth shelter or a secluded area in a park? But what if I get robbed or caught by police? And what will I do tomorrow?