The book tells the story of grief, memory, and the odd ways magic seeps into everyday life. Author Diana Jonas writes about her mother’s death, her own role as a mother, and the weight of family history. She stitches together stories of her Cuban refugee mother, her painter father, her mischievous brother, and the life she built on Centre Island. The narrative shifts between the sharp pain of loss and the shimmering texture of ordinary moments, with hints of magical realism that make the past feel alive. It is a memoir that reads like a spell, part mourning and part celebration of the ties that shape us.

Reading it, I felt pulled in two directions. On one hand, the writing is raw. She does not hide the ugliest moments, like hospital chaos, family fights, and financial collapse, and that honesty can sting. On the other hand, the prose often sings. Her images of the bay, her parents’ love and rage, the dogs, the music, the childhood friends, they glow with life. I found myself laughing in one moment and aching in the next. It reminded me of sitting with an old friend who refuses to sugarcoat but still makes you feel safe.

The ideas in the book struck me hardest when she leaned into the quiet magic of family. I loved the way she wrote about ordinary dinners and car rides like they were part of some greater ritual. She does not romanticize, not really, but she shows how beauty hides in the mess. The small spells are the ones you don’t notice until later. That theme ran through the whole book, and I kept nodding along. Sometimes I wished she had held back on a detail here or there, since the sheer weight of memory can be overwhelming, but maybe that is the point. Grief is overwhelming, and she lets us feel it without guardrails.

Just a Little Witch, Mostly a Mom is tender and fierce, funny and tragic, messy and beautiful. I would recommend it to readers who like memoirs that feel alive with both pain and humor, especially those who have lost someone close or who believe in the strange magic of ordinary life.

Pages: 295