The Balance

I never wanted to be different. I never asked for this life, yet someone decided it would be hilarious for me to be born.

Not quite human yet not fully a witch either. And truthfully, it’s awful. The in-between is hell.

Back when my parents were alive, my life was simple. Life was easy. Especially when you had two loving parents.

Our small apartment was too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter, and just right because they were in it.

My mother and I didn’t have the best relationship, sure we loved each other, I needed her, but we clashed. Constantly. She wasn’t the kind of woman who smiled often, not because she wasn’t happy, but because she was too filled with worry, and I was too young to fully notice. She was reserved, strict, but it was her paintings that spoke for her. The apartment was filled with canvases, some stacked against the walls, half-finished or waiting their turn under her brush. It was like all the words she never said lived in the colors she chose.

But father, on the other hand, filled the silence she left behind. He whistled along to the radio, always something old and in Spanish, a bolero or a cumbia that reminded him of home. He’d sing under his breath, off-key but with his whole heart.

“No puedo verte triste porque me mata…”

The words drifted through the apartment like a spell. He was my rock, always casting spells without even possessing any magical powers.

Even though our house was filled with love, there were rules that had to be followed. They were ones that had existed for me for as long as I could remember, though I never understood why.

Take the gloves, for instance. My mother ordered I wear them every single day without fail. In the dead of winter, no one questioned it, but even when the air was warm and sweltering, the rule never changed. The same snug green pair, I don’t know how she kept them so pristine, no matter how many I went through and grew out of she always had another pair waiting.

“Don’t forget your gloves, my love,” she’d remind me every morning, her voice both cheerful but firm.

My dad, on the other hand, would ruffle my hair and grin. “Mija, you have to listen to your mother,” he insisted, knowing Mom was in charge, although he would sneak behind her back and whisper secrets into my ear. “Mija, not all brujitas need a broom, some just have to keep their hands warm.”

At first, I thought he was just teasing, and she was being protective. But as I got older, I realized they weren’t just gloves; they were a leash. When I wasn’t wearing them, my hands would heat up whenever I felt frustrated, excited, or even a little sad. And when they did, unusual things happened.

When I was gloveless and in a bad mood, the whole building felt it. My father would grow uneasy, pacing back and forth without knowing why. My mother’s brushstrokes would turn erratic, her colors darker than she intended. Even the neighbors seemed to snap at each other more, slamming doors or arguing loud enough to bleed through the walls. Their interactions with my parents were always odd anyway, so I didn’t really take them into consideration when they were affected. I never really understood why they were always around, cleaning, fixing things, but I figured that’s just how neighbors were in the city.

I only cared when it affected my parents, and the tension would leak into their voices. My parents would begin to bicker over small things.

“You forgot to pick up your socks,” my mother would snap, gesturing toward a sad little pile in the corner.

“I just took them off,” Dad would say, confused.

“Not those, the ones over there. That pile has been sitting there for two days,” my mother would shout back angrily.

“Well, if it’s been there for two days, why didn’t you pick them up?” he’d shot back.

And just like that, the air would crack. My mom would raise her voice, throw a sharp retort, and then leave the room in a huff, leaving Dad and me in silence. He’d just sigh, run a hand through his hair, and withdraw to his books, as if knowledge could shield him from feelings.

That’s usually when she’d come back in with her sage, palo santo or lavender. Whatever she felt was the strongest to remove any negativity within us. Lighting the tip and waving the smoke in gentle swirls. She’d move through the apartment like she was tracing invisible battle lines, whispering affirmations as she cleansed the space.

“May the Sisters cleanse this home. Remove all negativity and stress. Let love speak louder than anger. Let peace live in the corners. Let laughter return. Let what is heavy be lifted. Let what is broken begin to mend.” At times, she’d pause in front of me or Dad, circling the smoke around our heads.

And then, when the air felt lighter, my father would take the bundle from her hands. His voice was lower, more careful, as if the smoke might carry his regret. He’d mirror her movements, trailing the scent of herbs around her like a promise.

“May the Sisters cleanse your spirit. May softness return to your heart. May my words land gentler next time,” he’d whisper, touching her forehead with a kiss.

Then he’d turn to me. “You too, my little tormenta,” he’d say, brushing the smoke over my shoulders, repeating the same affirmations in his own way. He’d press a kiss to my forehead and pull me into a tight hug, the kind that felt like a ritual in itself. The type of hug that just made everything settle.

“Don’t forget your gloves, my love,” she’d say again, this time softer, slipping them into my hands like she was giving me armor.

Then there were the glasses. Those I hated much more than the gloves. They were chunky, clunky things that slid down my nose and made the world blurrier, not clearer. My parents claimed we couldn’t afford better ones, but I knew better. I didn’t need them at all! I could see perfectly fine without them. Better, in fact. But just like the gloves, the glasses stayed. Another chain on their leash. Another way to make me feel normal when I knew I wasn’t. Normal people didn’t have to wear glasses when they didn’t need it or have to wear gloves in every season.

Yet no matter how many times I “lost” or “misplaced,” them, my mother always had another pair waiting. Just like the gloves. The woman had an infinite supply of the things I hated the most.

My father never questioned my mother’s madness, at least not in front of me. But at night, when they thought I was asleep, I could hear them arguing through the walls. The apartment was old, the walls thick, but sound carried through the crack in my door, especially when I focused really hard.

“What you have, what she has, is beautiful, a gift,mi amor” my father said, his voice low but urgent. “I don’t know why you won’t let her embrace it.”

“Because someone has to be the parent!” my mother shot back. “We can’t just stand around marveling at her. We need to learn how to manage it. The things she can do aren’t safe.”

Her voice trembled at the end. Not with anger, but something else. Something closer to fear.

“She’s going to find out sooner or later,” my dad said, louder now, frustrated. “Why not sooner? Why don’t you teach her what you know?”

“We can’t do that!” my mother snapped. And then, more quietly, so quiet I had to hold my breath to hear it, “She’s stronger than me.”

There was a pause. A long one. Then her voice returned, more fragile than I’d ever heard it. “I’ve… I’ve never seen anyone use magic with their hands.”

She hesitated, as if saying the words might summon something they couldn’t put back.

“That type of magic, it’s not supposed to exist anymore. It’s a gift from the Ancients. From the Sisters. It’s not just rare, it’s dangerous.”

“Have you spoken to Zara about it?” my dad asked, softer now.

Another pause.

“Yes,” my mom said finally. “She knows. She pulled her cards. But it was blank. No images. Just… fog.” Her breath hitched. “We’re not supposed to know.”

My father didn’t respond right away. When he did, it was with a tired sigh, like his heart was too full of questions and none of them had answers. “She deserves to know who she is.”

“I know,” my mother whispered. “But what if it’s already too much?”

After that night, she became stricter about the gloves, especially after the incident at school. Her fear only intensified.

It happened in second grade. At first, it was all in friendly fun. I had taken off my gloves during recess, just for a minute, to show a few kids how I could make the grass sway like it was dancing. I plucked a dandelion and blew softly, guiding the little tufts into the shapes of hearts and stars. The other kids were wide-eyed, giggling and clapping like it was some kind of magic trick at a birthday party.

But then Christine Barker showed up.

She pushed me so hard, it sent me flat onto my face in the dirt. I remember the burn in my cheek and the way my knees scraped against the pavement. I tried to smile, tried to play it off, even offered her a flower. But she looked at me like I was contagious.

“I don’t want that!” she snapped, slapping the flower out of my hand. “You’re probably gonna poison me, you witch!”

The kids around us froze. One by one, their excitement turned to from whispers, to snickers, but not the kind you want to be part of. Christine kept going, louder this time, until everyone was staring. And then, like kids do, they followed her lead.

“Yeah! She’s a freak!”“What a weirdo!”

My chest tightened. My hands tingled, heat simmering beneath my skin like a warning I didn’t know how to listen to. I tried to breathe, to stay calm. But I couldn’t.

I was furious.

With one hand,just the hand I’d been using to play with the grass, I lashed out. I didn’t even touch her, but Jessica, Christine’s best friend, went flying back. The force knocked her off her feet and slammed her against the pavement. The second the air left my lungs, the heat vanished.

I was trying to aim for Christine. But somehow, it was Jessica who took the beating.

And that hurt even more.

The playground went silent before erupting in screams. Someone shouted, “Ooooooh!” and then they all ran to get a teacher. I remember shoving my glove back on, my fingers shaking, and then everything went dark.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the nurse’s office with a pounding headache, my hands wrapped tightly in a cold towel. The air smelled like band-aids and hand sanitizer, and the buzzing lights made my temples throb. Through the thin wall that separated the nurse’s station from the main office, I could hear footsteps and muffled voices. Mrs. Cranberry, my teacher, patrolled just outside the door, whispering in hushed tones to the principal. The school had already called my parents.

I expected my mother to feel concerned. To rush in, sit beside me, hold my hand, ask me if I was okay.

Instead, I found myself alone in the blue uncomfortable plastic chair just outside the principal’s office, hands still aching, while my mom stood inside, facing them alone.

“She was attacked first!” my mother said angrily. Her voice cut clean through the wall. “My daughter was simply defending herself.”

“That child is a beast! She hurt an innocent sweet girl! Our poor Jessica didn’t even do anything!” another voice, probably Jessica’s parents, confronting my mother, full of rage. “You don’t defend yourself by slamming another child into the pavement!”

There was a pause. Then my mother’s tone shifted, calmer, but icier. “Well, I suppose next time she should simply curtsy while being shoved to the ground herself.”

“I understand you’re upset,” a third voice interrupted, deliberate, professional. Principal Gomez. “But Victoria’s actions were dangerous. There need to be consequences. She’ll be suspended for the rest of the week.”

“No. Absolutely not,” my mother said flatly. “She was only defending herself from a bully.”

Jessica’s mother scoffed. “Our daughter is not a bully. Yours is a monster.”

Then, suddenly, nothing.

No one spoke. Not a single sound escaped from the walls.It was as if the entire conversation had vanished into thin air.

A faint puff of green smoke curled out from under the door, just for a second, like a sigh escaping the room.

It dissipated just as quickly as it appeared, gone by the time the handle turned.

The door swung open.

My mother walked out, her expression unreadable, her eyes cold. She looked at me for half a second before ordering, “Stand up. Let’s go.”

No goodbyes. No explanations.

Just the car door slamming shut behind me.

“This isn’t up for discussion,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “When I tell you to do something, you do it. You will wear them. You will keep them on. And that will be the end of it.”

I groaned. “They’re too hot. They’re itchy. Do you know how hard it is to hold a pencil with gloves?”

She didn’t sigh, didn’t roll her eyes, didn’t even falter. “Are you writing a novel? No? Then you will manage.”

I clenched my fists. “That’s not fair.”

I frowned, flexing my fingers inside the suffocating fabric. The air conditioning blasted through the vents, but the gloves trapped the warmth against my skin. “Or maybe I overheated because of the gloves.”

“No,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the air like glass. “You overheated because the gloves keep you regulated. I’ve told you this.”

“But that’s crazy, Mom! It’s summer! And I could make the grass move! I can show you!”

She slammed her hand against the steering wheel. “Victoria! Stop with the bloody magical nonsense!”

I froze.

She had never spoken to me like that before.

She didn’t say another word. She just tightened her grip on the wheel and drove.

I wanted to believe her. She was my mom. Moms don’t lie. But I knew she was hiding something from me. Something I desperately wanted to hear from her.

That night, she made supper, the worst meal I’d ever had. A dish she loved but I could barely stomach. Steak and kidney pie, thick and heavy, the rich smell clinging to the kitchen like a punishment. The gravy was too strong, the meat too chewy, and every bite made my stomach turn.

I picked at my plate, swallowing down small, miserable bites, but she barely looked at me. No sharp remarks about table manners, no reminders to eat properly. Just silence.

She didn’t make it for me. She made it for herself, something familiar. Something to give her peace after the kind of day I had caused.

“I’d rather just have a slice of pizza,” I muttered.

“That’s not all you can eat, Victoria,” she said flatly. “You need to expand that palate of yours.”

“Why can’t we ever have something cheesy instead?” I asked, pushing my food around. “Like noodles. Or pupusas, like the ones Dad brings me.” My mouth watered at the thought.

Her eyes flicked up, sharper now. “Because you and your dad can’t always have whatever you want. The two of you don’t understand boundaries or rules.”

I glared at my plate. “Or you just like telling everyone what to do,” I mumbled.

When I pushed my half-eaten food aside, she barely reacted. Instead, she stood, gathered my plate, and spoke without looking at me.

“Go to bed, Victoria.”

“But it’s early!”

“Go to bed.”

I stared at her, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

So I went.