The bakery was still charred on the outside from the fire, though Mom had replaced the front door and the window frame. But something was wrong. There wasn’t the fresh smell of bread wafting through the air, or smoke billowing up from the chimney. There weren’t any tarts baking, any fresh pies piping and hot. The bakery looked shut down, boarded up, empty, like not a soul had set foot there in weeks.

I walked up to the door and pushed it open, she hadn’t even bothered to lock it.

The front room was dark, and no pastries were set out, just some week-old bread. Flies buzzed around the room, and the whole place stank, like something was rotten.

“Mom?” I said.

“Maybe I ought to wait outside,” said Pop, and I nodded at him, because I wasn’t sure quite what to do.

I walked on through the storefront, to the bakery, where I’d accidentally set the fire, where the ovens sat cold and unsmoking. And there was Mom, on her knees, her head bowed, like she was praying. Her dress was tattered and torn, the floor all dirty and musty, the burned smell still thick in the air from the fire. Around her were magic things, I knew—balls of twine nailed into the walls, chunks of wood with hearts and triangles and eyeballs carved on them, dead and drying flowers hung in gray bouquets upside down in tiny little altars. If I had ever doubted Mom was a witch, now I knew the truth.

“Mom?” I said again.

She stood up and whirled around, her eyes wide and bright, staring at me like she couldn’t believe I was actually there, like I might have been some figment of her imagination. She looked wore out, Mom did, bone-thin and exhausted, her hair a mess of gray tangles, her skin pale and sallow, wrinkles burrowed deep around her eyes. I bet she hadn’t left this spot, not for one second, since I ran off. I bet she’d spent night and day praying right here, casting her spells, not ceasing, not daring to quit. Her hand went to her cheek, and for a second neither of us said a word. We just stood there and looked at each other, both of us changed, both of us never to be the same again.

“Buddy,” she said, and I burst out crying and I ran to her, and she scooped me up in her arms and held me close, and we cried together, and I knew at last I was home, maybe for the first time ever.

After a minute Mom went still, and I realized that Pop had followed me in, that he was standing behind me, right there in the doorway. She held me tight and got a fistful of my hair and pulled me so close it hurt, it did, and I was scared she’d yank my hair clean out. But then her hand relaxed, and she let go of me. But I didn’t let go of her, no sir, I held on tight to my mom.