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Alma had made mistakes. She’d always known that. She knew she wasn’t perfect. Knew she was fallible. Knew she hadn’t deserved Pedro or his sacrifice or the miracle.
And yet here she was, fifty years later. Three healthy children, two son-in-laws and six beautiful nietos. A wonderful village. A marvelous Casita. An entire life that Pedro had never gotten to see or enjoy but they only had because of him. Not a day went by that she didn’t miss him or wish she could’ve traded places. Wished he’d gotten a chance to hear Pepa’s laugh or see Julieta’s smile or see one of Bruno’s plays. Wished he’d seen Dolores’ first steps, Luisa’s birth or Mirabel’s quinceañera. Fifty years of living and loving that Pedro had never gotten to partake in.
Fifty years of suffocating her family and holding on so tight that she’d nearly snuffed out their light. Made Bruno hide in the walls to protect himself and Mirabel. Made Luisa so stressed over her value as a person that talking her into a break involved making her helpful in a different way (reading to Antonio, cooking with Julieta, etc). But the one she felt the worst about, was convincing her dear Isabela to marry a man she didn’t love.
Alma felt bad about all of it, but somehow the idea that Isabela would live an entire life with a man she couldn’t care less about (while her poor prima pined from afar for the love of her life) hurt Alma in a different way than all the others. Maybe because the time she’d had with Pedro was something she would look back on every time life felt like too much. Because Pedro was still her rock fifty years later. Because Love was the entire reason she’d broken her familia in the first place.
But she was trying to be better. She’d actually talked with the familia, and when the words weren’t enough she observed and watched. Watched the way Isabela carried herself in town. Watched how differently Isabela acted with girls and boys her own age.
If Alma was being truthful, it scared her. Isabela acted like Alma herself had as a girl; giggling with other girls, polite but short with boys. The more Alma watched, the more she realized Isabela had always been like this. Dolores had gotten flustered and blushed around boys but Isabela had always been poised and collected. Alma had dismissed it as Isabela being the more confident of the two, but now she could see it for what it was. That Isabela was like herself and didn’t really like boys; not the way Luisa, Mirabel or Dolores did at least.
It terrified her. She knew people were different, knew that the Encanto was a safe place. She also knew that even if the Encanto wasn’t a safe place, the familia was safe and con una hermana como Luisa, Isabela didn’t have anything to worry about.
Nothing to worry about except for her abuela’s disapproval.
Alma felt despicable.
So she watched Isabela, saw her hanging out with one girl from town. Then she asked Dolores just to be sure. The simple fact that Dolores was hesitant to say anything, would only confirm that the two were friends and she hadn’t really heard anything, was enough for Alma. She got the nietos to bring their friends (and Friends) to dinner but Isabela would never bring anyone.
As a drastic measure, she asked Isabela to take a walk with her one day, insisting it would be a great break and chance for them to talk. They were just walking by the river, making small talk about nothing important. Not for the first time, Alma realized how little she knew about sus nietos and how little they knew about her.
“When I was young I had a best friend named Ana María.” Alma started, Isabela tilted her head, eyebrows furrowed.
“I thought your best friend was Isabela. Mamá said that’s where I got my name from,” she said. Alma smiled, closing her hands over Isabela’s. She’d taken to wearing darker colors and the strikingly blue dress she had on suited her nicely. Alma was proud of how much she’d grown since getting to try new things.
“Sí, I had a friend named Isabela, she… she didn’t make it to the Encanto,” Alma said. It still hurt a little, all the familia y amigos she’d lost. All the people who never got to enjoy the peace and safety they had. Isabela whispered an apology, squeezing Alma’s hands. “But before her, I had a different… Friend, and her name was Ana María,” Alma could still picture her face. She’d had long red hair, big brown eyes and a crooked smile. She loved to dance, especially in the rain and every time she twirled her hair would fan out around her.
“You must’ve been close,” Isabela said. Alma was smiling in memory and turned to her nieta, squeezing her hands again.
“We were,” she said. Well, it was now or never. “I was close to her in a very similar way to how close I was with your Abuelo Pedro,” Alma said, watching Isabela’s face for the moment it clicked. Isabela had her brow furrowed then her eyes got wide and her jaw dropped and it was like she was looking at Alma for the first time.
“¿Abuela? Y-you? And a girl?” She kept stuttering trying to workout whatever her question was so Alma sat them on a rock by the river, facing one another. Isabela was still gaping, coming to terms with something that had taken Alma a long time (and an even longer conversation con sus hijos) to understand. So Alma just smiled, running her thumbs over Isabela’s hands.
“Sí, mi vida. She was my favorite person. We would sit on the roof watching the stars or the sunrise.” She left out her mamá not approving, and her papá’s forlorn expressions. It was a different time and she’d moved on. She’d had Pedro, and she’d loved him harder and fuller than she’d even thought she was capable of.
“Wow, Abuela. That-That’s…cool,” Isabela said, though Alma could tell by her face that ‘cool’ wasn’t exactly the word she wanted. But what word was there for how to feel when your abuela admits to liking girls?
“Isabela, I didn’t want you to marry Mariano just for la familia,” she looked Isabela in the eye, cupping her face with a sad smile. “I just wanted you to be happy, mi vida. I wanted you to have what I had, what your mamá y tía have.” Isabela was tearing up and Alma wiped them away with her thumbs, pulling the girl into a tight hug. She knew it wasn’t enough, that it might never be enough, but it was a start.
“Abuela,” Isabela whispered, her face hidden in Alma’s collar, so Abuela just hummed her acknowledgement. “Tengo una… amiga. But she might be more than una amiga.” Alma smiled and pat Isabela’s head, running her fingers through thick tresses and nodding.
“That’s fine, mi vida. As long as you’re happy, I’m happy. And I’m so sorry for ever convincing you otherwise,” she said. Isabela squeezed her tighter and Alma could feel the relief and forgiveness in the sag of her nieta’s body, even if she didn’t think she deserved it. Eventually, Isabela pulled back, giving Alma a watery smile and sniffing as she hid a little in her hair.
“M-maybe I could bring her to one of our dinners… sometime?” She asked. Alma smiled, nodding and tucking Isabela’s hair behind her ear, cupping her nieta’s face. It wasn’t a time for hiding.
“Sí, Isabela. I’d love that. And we don’t have to tell la familia anymore than you’re ready for. I shouldn’t have made you feel like you have to hide, but it is your story to tell in your own time.” Isabela was back in her arms, holding on tighter than she had in years. Alma held back, the regret and guilt in her chest loosening just a little as Isabela thanked her a million times over.
“Her name is Lucia,” Isabela said. Alma choked back her tears. Just the way Isabela said her name, she knew that this girl was something special and that Isabela had found her Pedro. Had found the light of her life.