Samantha Stephens

 Oh, absolutely—if Samantha Stephens owned a magic broom, you can bet it wouldn’t be gathering dust in the utility closet next to the vacuum cleaner. No, that broom would be her personal express lane to serenity: sleek, silent, and enchanted with just enough cloaking charm to zip past neighbors unnoticed. While Darrin’s stuck in traffic or wrestling with a jammed garage door, Samantha would be gliding over the treetops in a silk robe, heading straight for an afternoon of hot-stone therapy, cucumber water, and zero “Honey, where’s my blue tie?” interruptions.

Let’s be honest—Samantha’s already doing quadruple duty: managing a household, keeping Tabitha’s emerging witchcraft on the down-low, diplomatically deflecting Endora’s critiques, and maintaining that picture-perfect suburban smile—all while never letting a single dish pile up (thanks to a discreet nose wiggle). So if she’s got a broom that can fly, she’s not using it to sweep crumbs. She’s using it to reclaim a sliver of peace. Picture her hovering above the clouds at sunset, wrapped in a plush towel, sipping herbal tea as the spa’s wind chimes echo softly below. It’s not indulgence—it’s survival with a side of sparkle.
And of course, she’d never admit it outright. If Darrin asked where she’d been, she’d simply say, “Oh, just ran out for a little me-time,” with that knowing half-smile that says *more than meets the mortal eye*. The broom? Tucked neatly behind the linen closet, disguised as a vintage heirloom or “one of Mother’s odd decorations.” But Tabitha would know. She’d catch a whiff of eucalyptus oil, notice the faint shimmer on her mother’s skin, and give a tiny, conspiratorial grin. After all, every witch deserves a getaway—and Samantha’s earned every minute of it.