Enchanted to Meet You by Meg Cabot EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Meg Cabot
- Language: English
- Genre: Contemporary Women Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
Jessica
To honor the Mother Goddess, the giver of life and creator of all things, celebrate her
bounty in the Fall, when her fruits are most plentiful.
Goody Fletcher, Book of Useful Household Tips
“Your mother is magic.”
That’s what my father told me one day when I was nine, and had been
sent to my room for being disrespectful.
I don’t remember now exactly what I’d said. Nine is the age when trouble
can start for so many girls—but it’s not necessarily our fault. We’re best
friends with someone one minute, then by recess we’ve been replaced.
Usually we have no idea why. Meanwhile, our baby teeth are being pushed
out of our head by our adult teeth, yet we’re still young enough to believe in
unicorns. It’s a dizzying, disquieting time.
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But 9 is also one of the most powerful numbers in the world of
witchcraft. It represents selflessness, humanitarianism, compassion, and
generosity—all the qualities a good witch aspires to possess.
Of course I didn’t know any of this when I was nine. All I knew then was
that I was miserable, and I was taking it out on the person who meant more
to me than anyone else in the world—my mother.
“What do you mean, Mom is magic?” I’d asked my father suspiciously.
“I mean that if you’re respectful and do what your mother says,” my
geeky bookkeeper father explained, sitting so awkwardly on the edge of my
pink canopy bed, “she can make life really easy for you. But if you treat her
badly, like you did today—well, things aren’t going to go so great.”
It’s the rare nine-year-old who would realize that her dad was only trying
to express his own feelings for his wife—a woman he was so deeply in love
with, he did, in some ways, think she was magical. My dad, who knew that
I loved fairy tales and princesses, was simply trying to explain to me in
words he thought I’d understand that if I stopped taking my growing pains
out on my poor mother, life would improve.
He could have no way of knowing that I’d take him literally—that in my
nine-year-old brain, hyped up on Narnia and Disney, all I heard was that my
mother was magic, which made her a witch . . . and that made me a witch,
too.
Our family, I deduced, must be descended from a long line of witches—
powerful ones, probably, who could read minds, cast curses, and fly. Soon,
because of my magic mother, I’d be learning to fly, too.
Of course nothing was further from the truth. My mother’s people were
hardworking Italian immigrants who’d arrived in the United States at the
turn of the twentieth century—same as my father’s, only his family had
come from Minsk. The closest any of them ever got to anything remotely
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