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Although the night was warm, Alma felt cold.
The inside of the church was wrapped in the darkness of the night, the moonlight was too faint to lighten it up and the candles didn’t make it any better.
Alma sighed, her forehead against her clasped hands. “Dios te salve, Maria,” she started what seemed like the hundredth time that day. “Llena eres de gracia: el Señor es contigo.”
She had been there for at least three hours since the evening mass ended and the church emptied. She stayed there, first sitting on the bench, then kneeling and praying as if it would bring Mirabel back.
“Santa María, Madre de Dios…”
It had been fifty years since she did it last time. It was fifty years since she spent almost all night in the church begging God to bring her husband back; bargaining on behalf of her children for they needed their father; finally asking for strength to be a good mother to their triplets.
That night she was in church again, spending long hours there, begging God to bring Mirabel back, bargaining on behalf of her daughter for she just lost a part of her heart and soul; finally asking for forgiveness.
She wished she could ask Mirabel for forgiveness too.
She wished that Pedro would forgive her for everything she had done.
She squeezed her eyes tighter and one picture came to her mind behind her closed eyelids.
Pedro stood there, as young and handsome as the day he had died, but his face wasn’t full of love, it wasn’t full of worry and concern - it was one of disappointment and it made her feel worse than if she had seen hatred in his eyes.
Because years ago Pedro sacrificed himself so that his wife and their children would be safe, would be alive.
And now, fifty years after his sacrifice, their granddaughter died trying to protect their miracle, their home, their family, just as her grandfather years ago.
And it all started with her.
When Isabela came back from where she run away, her face was stone-cold, her fists tightly clenched, her eyes hard and unforgiving and the words she had said - Alma would never forget them.
Because Isabela was absolutely right.
The cracks in the house, the end of their miracle, Mirabel’s death - it was all her fault. Just as Mirabel had told her minutes before the tragedy.
“Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo…”
Julieta was avoiding her and although Alma was hurt by that and although she felt she didn’t have the right to be hurt, she understood.
She understood the feeling of having the heart broken.
She understood the feeling of what seemed like the end of the world.
She understood loss and what it meant for the family, for the present and the future.
She understood that the past was to stay in the past.
And it made her feel even worse.
“Santificado sea tu nombre. Venga tu reino.”
She breathed, now into open hands, hiding her face from the world, from the light of the candles, from the moonlight as the moon seemed to judge her too.
“Forgive me,” she muttered, lifting her eyes to look at the altar. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
And her list of sins was long.
She wasn’t a good mother for her children, making them feel too pressured and not understood.
She wasn’t a good grandmother to her grandchildren, making them feel not good enough for her standards.
She wasn’t a good matriarch for their town, seeing only something that needed help, not the person who needed it.
And even as a widow, she wasn’t s good wife, wasting her beloved husband’s sacrifice by hurting their family more.
And now Mirabel was dead.
She was dead because she wanted to prove herself worthy of her approval, of her attention, of her love.
Alma couldn’t even offer an apology now. She couldn’t beg for forgiveness, she couldn’t promise to change, she couldn’t try to make it up for her granddaughter because Mirabel had died.
“Oh, Mirabel, mi nieta,” she muttered, her voice wavering a little as the emotions started to finally get to her. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
Mirabel had been so much more than just a giftless person with the surname Madrigal. She had been so much more than just a girl that everyone in town seemed to forget about.
She had been so much more…
And Alma had seen that too late.
And just moments before her death, Mirabel had felt that she had been unloved by her grandmother. That she had been seen as a crack in their perfect image, while all along the crack was Alma herself.
She was the one that caused the cracks. She was the one responsible for the breakdown of their family.
Bruno had left them because of that. Mirabel had died because of that. Julieta despised her because of that.
“I failed you, Pedro. I failed our familia,” she whispered, clenching the little medallion with her right hand. “I failed Mirabel.”
Alma had been the one who accompanied Mirabel’s body from the ruins of their Casita to the facility near their church where she was to be taken care of.
And all along that way, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the body, looking for some sign, for the smallest of movements, for the faintest of breaths - for the reversion of death.
But it hadn't happened fifty years before and it didn’t happen now.
“Saints of God, come to her aid,” she said, her whisper barely heard. “Come to meet her, Angels of the Lord. Receive her soul and present her to God the Most High,” a short breath. “Mirabel,” another short breath. “May Christ, who called you, take you to Himself; may Angels lead you to Abraham’s side–” her voice hitched.
She hid her face in her hands as her whole frame trembled maybe because of the cold, maybe because of the sobs that were hidden deep within her soul but didn't want to be seen.
“Señora Madrigal,” a quiet, soft voice interrupted her prayers.
Alma looked up. “Padre Roberto.”
The priest smiled a little, bowing his head before her. “Señora, I have to close our church for the night. It’s almost midnight. Another mass will be in the morning if you wish.”
Alma looked at him, her frame still, but not so proud as always. She felt like a broken person and probably that was how she looked like. “Padre, may I ask you a question?”
“Si, señora,” he said, resting his hand on the bench before her.
Alma followed the movement of his hand with her eyes. “I don’t want to fight for my Julieta’s forgiveness and I wouldn’t dare to ask for it, nor would I dare to ask Agustín, or Isabela, or Luisa,” she started, her eyes glued to his hand. “I can only hope to receive it one day, although I know I’m unworthy of such mercifulness,” she looked up at the altar. “And I can only bow my head before our Lord and ask for his forgiveness, although there are many people more worthy of this honour…”
She fell silent.
Father Roberto waited patiently.
“But…” she started, after what seemed like a few minutes and maybe it was so long, or maybe she just got lost in her thoughts. “How can I forgive myself? How can I make myself a better person when I did so many mistakes, when I hurt so many people? How can I integrate mi familia?”
How could she keep her family together?
“Forgiveness is a gift,” he said eventually. “Forgiveness is something we shall not take for granted. That’s something that is given to us, and it’s given out of pure intentions and heart. Out of calmness of the soul,” he looked at the door of the church. “Your familia may never forgive you, señora, and they have the right to do so. But as I said, forgiveness is a gift. A gift one may give themselves. You shouldn’t consider yourself unworthy of that. You should do everything you can to see yourself as worthy.”
“But how to accomplish it?” she asked, now looking at him. “Our Mirabel’s dead. Our familia is torn apart because of that. Because of me.”
He shook his head. “I can’t help you with that, señora. That’s something you must learn on your own. That’s something that is between you and your familia. But, if I may,” he said delicately, asking for permission of some kind.
“Go on.”
He nodded. “You’re not a bad person, señora. You’ve been helping people in this village for longer than I'm alive. You and your familia kept us happy, kept us safe, kept us unharmed and protected. That’s not something that bad people do,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Without you, we wouldn’t be there. You have done so much for us,” a short pause. “No, you’re not a bad person. But somewhere along the way, you got lost. You have deviated from the path marked out for you. And instead of turning back, looking for your way back, you walked for years on a different path, hoping that it would have what you were looking for at its end. However, the road was long, with more and more turns, and at some point, it was too late to go back, so you had to keep going. And that's how you lost your true self. But does that make you a bad person? No.”
She shook her head.
He touched her arm. “Señora, I know that it’s not easy for you now. I know that it’s not easy for your familia, for your hija and her esposo. Loss is never easy. But I’ll pray for you and your close ones. I will pray that the familia Madrigal will preserve and that you will achieve peace of mind one day.”
“Amen.” She breathed.
Father Roberto offered her his hand and helped her to her feet.
“Gracias,” Alma tilted her head, then looked at the altar, muttered another prayer and turned away, heading dor the door.
But her every step was heavy because she knew that she and her family had been on two differents paths for too long.