Chapter 13: Bring Your Mom to Work Day

7:00 a.m. – Pop.

Some people wake up to birdsong. Others wake up to the comforting aroma of coffee, or the gentle beep of a sunrise alarm.

You wake up to the sound of two people screaming.

Not one person. Two.

You open your eyes.

There is a woman in your bedroom.

There is a child in your bedroom.

And your bare hand is glued to the bare leg of said child.

All three of you scream. It’s less a conversation than a car alarm convention.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” the woman shrieks, charging toward you with the energy of someone who has absolutely chased a raccoon off her porch with a broom before.

“WHO ARE YOU?!” you yell, because it seems like the right thing to say while being assaulted in your own bed.

The child screams louder, because if you can’t contribute meaningfully to a dialogue, volume is the next best thing.

7:02 a.m. – Maternal Wrath

The woman—Amanda, but you don’t know that yet—goes full Mom Mode. This is an energy level above regular anger, above rage. This is the wrath of someone who has driven a minivan through a snowstorm for a piano recital only to find it rescheduled.

She grabs your arm and yanks. “GET YOUR HAND OFF MY DAUGHTER!”

“I CAN’T!”

“TRY HARDER!”

“I AM TRYING AS HARD AS ONE CAN WHEN THEY’RE—PLEASE DON’T KILL ME.”

“WHY IS YOUR HAND THERE?!”

“MAGIC!”

This is, objectively, not the answer to give a mother in this situation.

7:15 a.m. – Bureaucracy of Damnation

Amanda, being a normal person who lives in the real world, immediately tries to call the cops.

Her phone doesn’t work.

She tries yours. It doesn’t work either.

She tries 911 on your landline (you didn’t even remember you had one). It goes straight to hold music — a cheery, looping melody that can only be described as “Your emergency is important to us, please stay panicking.”

“Why can’t I get through?!” she snaps.

You shrug. “No consequences.”

“No what?!”

“The genie… it’s a rule. Nobody intervenes. Nobody helps. Nobody cares.”

Amanda stares at you like she’s about to perform an exorcism with her bare hands.

8:00 a.m. – The Grim March

Amanda tries everything.

Calling family. Nope.

Leaving the apartment. Nope.

Getting Sophie dressed for school. Magically prevented. Every attempt reroutes back to you like the world’s cruelest elastic tether.

By the time she gives up, she’s shaking with rage.

“I hate this,” she mutters.

“Same,” you say.

She shoots you a glare that could sterilize a small farm.

9:00 a.m. – Work, Because Apparently This Is Mandatory

Because the genie has decided “No consequences” means “You still have to go to your job,” you end up shuffling into your office with a scowling PTA mom and a traumatized nine-year-old glued to you like the world’s worst family cosplay.

Your coworkers do not react anymore. They’ve moved past shock into the kind of numb curiosity usually reserved for watching surgery videos on YouTube.

Linda from HR stops by. “Morning. This your… family?”

“Prisoners,” you say.

Amanda bares her teeth. “Correct.”

Linda shrugs and leaves.

11:00 a.m. – The Resistance

Amanda has moved from panic to Problem-Solving Mode. This is a dangerous place for everyone.

“Okay,” she says, pacing the hallway like a general in yoga pants. “We just… need to trick it. Loophole it. Like taxes.”

She grabs Sophie by the shoulders. “If we can get his hand off your leg for even one second, the magic breaks. Right?”

“No,” you say.

“Quiet,” she snaps.

Her first attempt: lubrication. She commandeers the office breakroom and douses your hand in canola oil. It now looks like you’re arm-deep in a rotisserie chicken. Nothing happens.

“Maybe it’s heat-based!” she declares, dragging you all to the kitchen and sticking your arm under the industrial hand dryer. The three of you stand there for five minutes like some horrible performance art installation. Nothing.

“Fine. ****, then.” She tries prying you off. She’s stronger than you expect. You make noises usually reserved for the dying. Still nothing.

Amanda stops, panting, eyes wild. “Okay. It’s… fine. We’ll… escalate.”

She grabs a butter knife.

“NO,” you say.

“NOT YOU. The magic,” she says, advancing.

Sophie freezes, eyes huge. “Mom? Mom, what are you doing?!”

“Fixing it!” Amanda says, like that’s comforting.

“Fixing it how?!” Sophie yelps, scrambling back against your hip because you are — against all odds — the less scary adult in the room now.

Amanda brandishes the knife like she’s about to duel the curse itself. “We need to break the contact!”

“WITH A KNIFE?!” Sophie shrieks.

Amanda blinks, seems to remember she’s holding cutlery, and throws it into the sink with a clatter. “Fine! Fine. No knives.”

You don’t move. Sophie doesn’t move.

Amanda slumps into a chair, muttering to herself about solvents and “calling Janice, she knows a guy.”

You, carefully: “See? No consequences.”

Amanda glares at you like you invented magic just to ruin her day.

3:00 p.m. – The Dreadful Truce

By mid-afternoon, Amanda has stopped trying to fight the rules of the universe.

Instead, she sits at your desk, scrolling her phone like she can manifest a lawyer through sheer willpower.

Sophie is surprisingly resilient. She commandeers your computer to play Roblox, narrating every detail of her virtual house build.

Amanda occasionally sighs. Loudly. Meaningfully. The kind of sigh that could level cities.

8:00 p.m. – Couch of Defeat

You’re all on the couch.

Sophie’s asleep. Amanda’s awake, staring at the TV but not watching.

“You live like this every day?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

She shakes her head. “You need serious help.”

“Genie doesn’t cover therapy.”

She doesn’t laugh. But she does stop glaring for five whole minutes. Progress.

7:00 a.m. – Pop.

They’re gone.

No note. No thanks. Just the faint smell of dry shampoo and a child’s shoe left behind like a piece of forensic evidence in the Trial of You vs. The Universe.

You sip your coffee.

“I am,” you tell the ceiling, “definitely being tested by someone.”

The ceiling does not disagree.