Violet often watched her mother shuffling around the house in the morning, but she never thought much of it. It just seemed to be something she did. Her father was a bit more chaotic in his routine—often dashing out of the house and returning once or twice for his keys or his coffee, and never leaving without giving Violet and her mother a kiss.
            She liked to eat her bowl of cereal and read the newspaper comics at breakfast. It made her feel very mature, like her father. He often liked to read the newspaper on the weekends. Afterwards, she almost always wanted to grab her own briefcase and walk out the door to her adult job like him. She’d sometimes try to imagine what he might be doing all day. She was sure that she could do whatever it was, and that whatever it was was important.
            Violet didn’t often think about what her mother did during the day. When she opened her lunch to the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, grapes, carrots, and little chocolate chip cookies, she didn’t think about how her mother had made it for her. Even when she got a note directly from the source that said “Love you, V” or “Have a great day,” she’d smile, and feel loved, but she’d never think about how that was special, that not everyone’s mother did that.
            She possessed a curiosity about her father, and she’d often follow him around when she could. He had a routine. He would come home from work, change into his sweatpants, lay down on the couch, and watch the news. He was predictable. He went to bed before everyone else. He wasn’t terribly interesting at home, but she studied his behavior just in case something new might happen.
            When she asked him about his job he would simply pat her on the head. He’d say, “That’s not for you to worry about, muffin.” There was something about the unknown that was intriguing, and a part of her wanted to hold on to that mystery, but she also wished he was a little less tired after work so she could ask more questions.
            Violet’s mother, on the other hand, never seemed tired. She was always doing something. When Violet would wander sleepily downstairs in the morning, her mother was always there, cleaning, humming, fiddling with something. She’d see her and smile, and grab the milk and cereal for Violet to prepare for herself. She was so used to her mother’s presence, she didn’t often wonder what her mother did when she wasn’t around.
            She was sure that she knew her mother. She saw her enough. While her father was out, Violet’s mother often drove her and her brother to friend’s houses, playdates, or mall meetups. She knew everyone’s parents and she made sure that they were always safe. She didn’t have a nine to five job and she didn’t like to drink much, but she did like to read. Violet never wondered if she liked doing all the housework, or if she ever needed help.
            Violet knew that her mother was a painter. She had a whole room of supplies and easels and paints, but somewhere along the line she picked up the idea that it wasn’t as important as what her father did, because it was a hobby. Sometimes she’d sneak into the paint room when her mother was away at the store and she would run her fingers along the rough splotches of paint on canvas. It felt special but she never could figure out why.
            One morning instead of being fixated on the newspaper cartoons, Violet really tuned in as her mother gracefully navigated the kitchen. She knew where everything was, and she moved from spot to spot ethereally. It was easy to imagine her as a sort of fairy—for a second she saw the kitchen suddenly come to life through her mother’s hands. She swore she could hear the teapot whisper and her mother whisper back, and instead of placing utensils neatly back into the drawer, they seemed to fly from her fingers and follow an invisible rollercoaster, loop-de-loops and all, slowing down at the end and gently nestling into their home.
            This short daydream was interrupted by the heavy footsteps of her teenage brother who slumped in the chair next to her and let out a belch. Everything went back to normal, the magic had left. She looked back at her mother and she was wiping the cabinets with a rag, it was nothing special.

Leigh Ferrier is a graduate student who resides outside of Philadelphia. She enjoys dabbling in speculative and realistic fiction. When she’s not attempting to pick up another hobby to add to her collection, she’s probably playing video games.