Chapter Text
there were other suitors, in the years after héctor left.
they were each perfectly charming, of course, all neatly slicked hair and handsome smiles. they tried to woo her with flowers and pretty words, poems and songs recited beneath her window as if they were straight from some cheap romance; often, she threw what was nearest at hand.
imelda didn’t want to be a wife, not again. she already knew what it was like.
“you’re still young, mija,” her mother says to her one night as they set the table. coco gives a shriek of laughter from the other room, followed by oscar and felipe. “and beautiful. you could make another man very happy, and coco deserves a father, no?”
and, oh, her temper rears its head, as volatile as it had ever been, burning in her chest. imelda sets the last plate down harder than necessary and ignores the look of warning that her mother gives her. she didn’t need a husband to make her happy or to keep her comfortable; she and coco would be just fine on their own.
“coco had a father,” imelda says hotly, but she crosses her arms tightly, holding on as if to keep herself from shattering, “and he left us, that pendejo, that useless, no-good músico —”
“imelda!” her mother scolds, dismayed by her coarse language, and swats at her with the dishcloth she’d had slung over her shoulder. there was no force behind it, though, and imelda doesn’t bother trying to duck away; the sting was almost nonexistent. “héctor may have wronged you, but you know he left with only the best of intentions —”
“but he still left!” imelda all but snarls abruptly, and the two women are left looking at each other in silence, both surprised at the outburst. but imelda just straightens her back and presses her lips into a thin line, her hands folded neatly and formally at her waist.
“perdón, mamá,” she says stiffly, “but it’s been a long day, and i think it’s time to put coco to bed. i’ll see you on sunday, after mass.”