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Despite every signal Alma’s body was providing that she needed a desperate break, there was nothing she could do to subdue the inferno burning inside of her. She knew she was a mess; she knew that she had lost her very last shred of dignity the moment she had fainted in her granddaughter’s arms.

When she had come to, all she could see was the empty seat across from her and the abandoned spot by the sofa instead of Luisa’s horrified expression as she cradled the old woman. But no matter how often Alma had gasped and blinked, unwilling to face the harsh reality that her son, her baby, had deserted their family once more, Bruno couldn’t hear her plea, lost somewhere in the darkness outside.

The door to the garden had swayed slowly, like a derisive reproach.

However, different from the time he had left ten years ago, now, Alma couldn’t blame it on her son’s supposed selfishness. No, the anxious mother finally saw that he wasn’t responsible for what he was doing. It was the sickness inside his head that must dull his senses and ability to make reasonable decisions.

And so, with the Devil making himself at home in the old woman’s neck, she tore open the earth to find her son.

She would not lose him again.

Her heart couldn’t handle another scare.

Nauseous and half-screaming, she animated the townsfolk to help her on the crusade that decided over life and death. Although the people sprung into action the moment they had caught a glimpse of the familiar terror of loss in her eyes, Alma had still been surprised by their readiness to sacrifice their time. Still, she wouldn’t have given them any room to argue when only one single person mattered to her.

Backed by her family and standing fiercely atop a hill, the Queen commanded her forces, letting them swarm out to succeed for her, to secure victory over an invisible threat. 

It was the time again when the Madrigal Matriarch became the Encanto’s Monarch and she would let no stone remain unturned to reclaim her treasure. 

But after hours of searching, morale dwindled and the mask chipped as Alma sunk down on the ground. Her eyes were wide open but unseeing, strong but powerless when she realized that her modest kingdom was too large, after all.

She told herself that she wouldn’t lose hope, not again, and tried to shut down the hurt with more lies she kept convincing herself. Her son was fine, she prayed, that was the truth. 

Alma couldn’t live with herself if it wasn’t.

Then, after one of the darkest hours of her life, it was all but cheerful animal sounds that alerted her to look to her right and behold the return of her son and grandson.

Camilo led his uncle by the hand, completely unashamed, ringed by coatis, birds, and a large jaguar for protection, because, and Alma had to stare, her son was wearing a bucket over his head, blindly pattering next to his nephew.

They had come from the jungle, and a cold feeling froze the hot anger and desolation in Alma’s chest. The realization that her baby was back carried her over sticks and leaves, above the cluster of villagers that framed her two returned relatives. 

Her hands were ready to hug and grip and hold near.

And that was what she did, arms raking, clawing, across Bruno's narrow back, feeling for bumps and bruises that she couldn’t find, her head butting against the metallic contraption that shielded her son’s face from view. Alma feared for the worst of what might have hidden underneath, but the only thing she saw when her son swiftly removed it was—

Her little boy, with a toothy but awkward grimace, biting his lips as he stared up at her with uneasiness, knowing fully well that he was in deep, bottomless trouble.

His look of impending doom, his expectation that she would certainly punish him severely, made her breath hitch. Every phrase she had wanted to throw at him accumulated like a lump in her throat as she observed him, her fingers settling lightly on his slumped shoulders.

My little boy.

Her gaze lingered on his face, his wide eyes that narrowed in confusion at her hesitance, his thin mouth opening to apologize, and his breathy voice that emerged at last.

“Lo siento,” he said unsurely but earnestly, the bucket lowering until he cradled it between their bodies, hoping to disappear behind it.

But she would never let him disappear again, Alma swore to herself. She would never let him leave her eyesight once more, and if she had to stop blinking altogether, so be it.

“Lo siento?!” the older woman snarled, squeezing his upper arms to the point that it made him feel uncomfortable, squirming in her hold.

No, an apology didn’t cut it. An apology didn’t erase the agony she had endured in the past hours. A mere apology didn’t mend the threads that had kept her already bleeding heart from bursting open again.

An apology didn’t make a decade of grief appear like an unruly sea.

(Or did it?)

Her intense scowl caused her son to cower in front of her until Alma was convinced that only her hands were still keeping him on his feet. Too overcome with conflicting emotions, she didn’t spare a thought at how much strength she still possessed at her advanced age.

But her son had always made her stand up straight and her words aloof.

“We’ll talk later,” she announced coolly, not having the nerve to cause an even bigger scene with all those people around who were already witnessing the family drama like a stage play.

What a mess.

Alma only let him go when she knew that Julieta would watch over him so that she could thank the villagers for their effort. She never turned her back on him once, neither the wild jaguar nor Pepa scolding her own son causing the old woman to be complacent.

“You’re on house arrest, Camilo!” her daughter shouted, tears streaming down her face while she was about to rip off the teen’s ear as she tugged on it, “House arrest!”

Camilo yelped in pain but still dared to crack one of his jokes while a toucan passed them by. “But we don’t have a house!” he pointed out, cheekily, resulting in his mother turning a furious red as she whacked him over the head.

“‘No-house’ arrest, then!” she shrieked, and Alma was somewhat relieved that she wasn’t the only mother around who was lost in her emotional confusion.

“That doesn’t even make sense—!”

Alma drowned out their exchange, their squabble fading into the background when she addressed the villagers, the empty words suddenly rolling off her tongue like butter, a routine automating her movements and expressions. 

Keep your head, Alma. Keep your backbone and your heart, she told herself while faces filled with pity and seriousness wished her good night as the open place slowly emptied.

To her surprise, however, a couple of the villagers also claimed that they had missed her son and were glad that he was back among them.

But she didn’t have the time to dwell on the fleeting signs of comfort as she shook hands and patted backs, hoping the people’s generosity hadn’t run dry with the event. She hoped they would still help them rebuild their Casita and take them in for the time being.

(Like a Queen thanking her soldiers after a war well-won, regally dismissing the spoils and casualties of battle.)

The moment Alma felt like she could leave, she stalked over to her son by the bench, grabbing his hand and pulling him along behind her. Julieta watched them go as she alerted the rest of the family, frowning at how her brother struggled to keep up with the old woman’s haunted stride.

Alma had no idea where she was going.

There was only the biting voice inside her head that screamed at her, fears she thought she had put to rest long ago rising from the dead.

Find shelter! Shelter! Shelter!

Or someone is not going to survive the night.

Her family followed an unspoken command as they trailed after her. And the only one who was out of practice with doing what she demanded was safely attached to her arm, stumbling next to her like on the hunt, supplies stored in a bucket in replacement of a hastily packed bag.

There was persecution and terror on the horizon as the sun set and the night ate away at her energy. She had to tell Pedro that she needed a second to rest, asking him if he could carry their newborns. They needed to eat soon but Alma doubted her capabilities in offering them food. 

They would have to cross the river, the moon reflecting inside it like a glossy disk that was distorted by the waves, just like the flames that rose in the distance. 

The horsemen would catch up to them, she knew it but they had to keep going. She clenched Pedro's warm hand and waded into the freezing river.

Then they were there, their presence announced by a booming whinny and pounding hooves that brought nothing but destruction. Deafening screams echoed through the air as someone was breathing heavily and fell to her side.

Pedro made her look at him, and her stomach dropped when she saw his wide but determined eyes. He didn't have to say a word to convey his idea.

Pedro was about to be mercilessly massacred—

Inside, quick! Quick!

Barely, Alma spotted a low house, ripping open the heavy door and shoving Bruno inside, a waft of air hitting her nose that smelled faintly of hay and feed. But the old woman couldn’t care less where they were, only driven by the need for privacy and security.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” she demanded immediately as she snapped out of her nightmare, crossing her arms and glaring at the younger man who had angled himself behind a wooden beam, trying to disguise his knocking on it for good luck.

She could only just make out his fearful expression and his shaking hands in the darkness, the only light entering the shack from a weak lantern outside.

“I-I… Ah-I, uh-huh,” her son stuttered, completely intimidated by her as he shrunk back, setting down the bucket by his feet. 

Blind anger and blame overcame the old woman and she advanced on him, weary mind blank as she relied on her worst instincts. “What were you thinking?!” she shouted, making a grab for him.

But Bruno evaded it, scrambling behind the beam and lurking out of it with fright, his eyes meekly holding contact with hers. He dodged her attacks for a while longer until the old woman was fed up with his childish antics.

The Fool takes his chance, the Hermit plays safe, and there was no question about who Alma had turned into.

It was a game she could not bear to lose.

Alma was about to reclaim her authority as she clenched her fists and breathed in, but the door opened and her other two children stormed inside, equally disturbed and worried about her uncharacteristically spry behavior.

The old woman felt her daughters’ shocked eyes on her as they took the spots next to their small brother, rubbing his back and calming him with their presence like they were wont to do.

Alma's chest hurt at how easily they managed to make Bruno breathe a sigh of relief, almost making her feel like the villain of the story.

But why would she be at fault? She was only trying to make things right!

“A-all good?” Pepa asked, lightly holding her brother’s tiny wrist in her hand. Bruno nodded and smiled at her, easing Pepa’s worry somewhat.

Alma had rarely heard her second oldest stutter, so used to hear her say boldly what was on her mind. However, she wouldn’t dwell on it when her youngest needed the most attention.

The old woman swept over the chatelaine at her dress, the sensation of cold metal a welcome comfort at her fingertips. 

We’re all together, Pedro. Our babies are safe.

Her triplets were muttering amongst themselves, reunited, and a familiar constellation with Bruno in the middle, Pepa on his right, and Julieta at his left. The strongest possible formation. 

“Now—” Alma started but the door opened once more, Agustín and Félix coming inside.

“I brought a lamp,” Agustín mentioned and set it on a square beam that crossed the small building, Félix taking a spot between the siblings on a hay bale.

Alma could feel her eye twitch at being interrupted once more and she glared at the men when it became apparent that they planned on staying.

“This is a family matter,” she admonished, momentarily regressing to a time when it had just been the four of them. A lonely widow and her three underfed children who always came first, betrayed by God and life. “Leave.”

Agustín gasped at her words, betrayal on his long face. He was about to protest but Félix beat him to it, slowly getting to his feet and calming the old woman with understanding and his soft voice.

“Again?” Félix asked, referring to the meeting after breakfast they had been excluded from and the previous times where Alma had forgotten who the Madrigal name extended to, “I thought we were past that already.”

The old woman scowled but pointed at the door. It was a battle of wills and she knew she would lose if she faltered, and she couldn’t risk it.

Her pointed glare urged the two men along the way out, until a soft voice spoke up, filled with determination and unforeseen bravery.

“No. Stay,” Bruno demanded, and his brothers looked at him gratefully and with relief, knowing that the old woman couldn’t deny him such a simple wish.

And they were right because Alma redirected her full scrutiny to her son when he was ready to speak. The two men slunk back inside and sat down behind their wives, opposing the old woman in more ways than one.

“Fine,” Alma agreed unnecessarily and crossed her arms with expectation.

And so, the Queen held court in a donkey barn.

After a moment of silence, her son stepped forward and his sisters glanced at each other with confusion, unsure if they should let him take this big step alone.

Bruno’s constricted visage softened, his arms hanging at his sides, knowing exactly what turmoil plagued his mother. 

“I’m not asking for much, Mamá,” he said, and Alma was about to break at the small, timid smile he was giving her, filled with compassion and care she didn’t think she deserved, “All I need is a second chance.”

“A second chance, Brunito?” she repeated, her throat clogging up at the possibility of letting him run free again, unsupervised, and unprotected, “A second chance?!”

Her son cringed at her enraged tone, slim hands rising to shield his face in vain.

“No, we’ve been too careless with you,” the old woman declared, shooting him down, “You ran off again at the first chance. And for what?”

His eyes flickered to the bucket, and he reclaimed his last shred of confidence to explain his train of thought, even though it was embarrassing and difficult, almost impossible, to get across.

“I just had this idea— It was imminent, okay?” he said, picking up the bucket again and holding it up to present it to all the people who were with him in the barn. His gaze lingered longer on Julieta, thinking she was one of the only allies he had. “I remembered that I left this in the jungle when I was looking for Mirabel and only wanted to get it back.”

Alma massaged her temple, deeply saddened by her son’s wacky priorities. “So, it was an impulse?” she asked, resigning to merely hearing her son out, but not listening to what he had to say.

“Yes, but it had a logical reason!” Bruno assured, noticing the subtle feeling of his mother’s attention waning.

“That being?” Félix inquired, picking up where Alma had slacked off.

Bruno perked up and smiled at his brother, glad that he would like to lend an ear. “A bucket can contain stuff. Like spackle,” he explained, and tears welled up in Alma’s eyes at how reminiscent it was of the presentations he had done as a child, describing the most outlandish topics to them with a sparkle in his eyes, “What do we need spackle for? The house. What do we need a house for? Ah, to live. The more buckets, the sooner a house. I admit the timing for me to leave was coincidentally bad, but—!” 

Oh, how Alma's heart burned! Her son’s strange academic interests had turned into grappling with prophecies over the years, too unfathomable for them to understand. And now, it was just a mockery, a distortion of what it had been, with the confused garble he was spewing now…

But this behavior couldn’t be explained with a magical Gift. This concerning act was the result of ten-year-long isolation and lack of human contact.

“You’re speaking in riddles, Brunito,” Pepa mentioned as she bit her lips, gaze open and brows lifted.

“I— what? But it’s exactly how I just described it!” the younger man defended, countenance befuddled as he frowned at his sister, “Literally.”

Whereas her son had always spoken the truth to the point that it was uncomfortable to even know it, Alma realized that she had to take his current explanations with a grain of salt and heavy suspicion. But it was strangely reassuring that she wasn’t the only one who was hesitant to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The family pondered his claims in feigned silence, although all had already come to the same conclusion.

Instead of the accomplishments of the past ten years she had seen the day before, now, Alma could only take in the damage they had dealt her son.

She buried her face in her hands, suppressing a wail.

Julieta took pity on her brother and eased him down on another hay bale, wanting to get him out of the distressing situation he had created for himself. “Here,” she told him softly, taking an arepa out of the pockets of her apron and unwrapping the towel that had kept it protected.

Bruno looked at it in confusion and then back up at his sister. “Why did you—”

“Force of habit,” Julieta revealed quickly, raising the food until it was up to his chin in encouragement, while Bruno blinked at it in tense contemplation.

Alma caught the hesitation and unhealthy disgust in his expression, deciding this could be the moment to make him aware of his own condition.

“Brunito, can’t you see? Can’t you see what you have done to yourself?” the old woman keened, gesturing at the food to emphasize her point, “You’re… unwell.”

Bruno’s gaze snapped up at her, completely forgetting that his sister was standing right next to him. He stood up and wrung his hands, taking slow steps in his mother’s direction, recognizing where she was going with it but unaware that the misunderstanding between them would only continue to grow. 

“Yesterday, I-I thought we finally understood each other,” he croaked out, picking absentmindedly at his nails as he tried to clarify his feelings one last time, “I told you what you wanted to know and you— I felt like you finally really saw me for who I am.”

Alma’s eyes were misty, and she took his hands, rubbing over the skin to warm them up, to reignite the fire and comfort they had attained the evening before. “Brunito, that hasn’t changed,” she assured, extending her palm to cup his cheek, “But now I realize that I have simply no idea— I don't know how deep your sickness goes—”

“But I'm not sick!” he exploded with exasperation and offense that Alma would describe as naive petulance if the situation hadn’t been so suffocating, pulling away from her as if he had been burned.

“Then prove it!” Alma demanded, pointing back at the dish in her daughter’s clutch, “If you’re not sick you can easily eat a single arepa, right?” 

But the family's problems laid deeper, beneath their skin, in their souls. They suffered from what an arepa couldn’t heal.

And the process to learn from one another was far from linear.

Bruno puffed up his chest as his face hardened, and to Alma’s surprise and horror, he snatched the baked good right out of his sister’s hand without a second thought and inhaled it before Julieta could stop him.

Alma heard Pepa gasp, the three women fearing a repetition of the mess from the morning but there was only defiance and seething pride at his demonstration on his face when Bruno turned around.

“Bruno—” the old woman warned and cooed emptily, a wave of concern bringing her to touch his forehead and to feel for a sudden abnormal temperature although she knew, deep down, how unlikely it was.

“Are you feeling nauseous?” she asked despite it all and her son shook his head. Alma hoped he wasn’t picking up the habit of lying for the first time in his life.

“I’m… occasionally confused, m-maybe, and uh, a bit unconventional but you can't say that that's something new,” he mumbled, twisting his nose away from her hand and noticing a donkey walking by outside.

He had lost control because he was damaged all the way. At least, in his family’s opinion.

Alma’s eyes flickered over his form once more, scraggly but limp hair hanging off his scalp, wan and gaunt features slack and sad, while Mariano’s oversized shirt derided his haggard frame more than Pedro’s clothes had.

“But look at you!” the mother cried in pain, “There's nothing left of you!"

At once, hazel orbs snapped back at her and narrowed into angry slits. “Nothing left of me?” Bruno barked with anger, staggering over to a beam, and hugging it rather than his relatives as he felt inadequate again. 

But this time, he didn’t care about how his words came gushing out. “That implies that there has ever been something you liked about me in the first place!”

It was like a forceful punch to the face and Alma growled in retaliation.

How dare he?!

How could he suggest that I don’t love him?

He was just trying to get a rise out of her, Alma told herself. Bruno didn’t mean it. He couldn't mean it.

Her son was mentally unwell like he was physically unsteady. She had to be calm and collected to protect him, no rash decisions that could backfire. After all, she had witnessed his unsuccessful attempt on his life with her own eyes.

Bruno was on his knees, arms wrapped around the beam while he rippled his knuckles along the grain, trying to make the events turn in his favor through any means. 

“Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock. Knock on wood,” he muttered in a wide-eyed frenzy, hitting his head at the last part before he did it all over again.

But Félix could only stand to see it one time, and caught the thin wrist, holding it gently but firmly. “It’s okay. Calm down, Bruno, please,” his brother assured and Pepa shrieked at the familiar scene, clasping her hands over her mouth.

Out of instinct, Bruno freed himself with a well-placed tug on his arm and left his family stunned at his sudden, unforeseen display of strength.

“I feel like if…,” the younger man wheezed and brought himself upright, brushing off blades of hay, “I don’t stand up for myself now, you’ll never believe me enough to let go.”

Alma considered him and the past twenty-four hours, nodding to herself when she realized she only had one option to protect him.

“Yes, you’re right. I’ll never let you go again,” she promised, especially not after that concerning spectacle.

“Agustín,” the old woman spoke, and the tall man perked up from his spot next to his wife, “It is time to involve your sisters.”

The Madrigals had had quite the fallout with Agustín's side of the family but Alma had faith that they would take Bruno in so that there would always be someone around him. At least until Casita was fixed.

Immediately, Bruno gasped, only his mind being quick enough to notice the negative implications for himself, and in a broad sense, their home’s reconstruction.

“You can’t lock me up!” he argued, twitching around his mother, and exhausting his last arguments as he was being backed into a corner, “I-I’m... an adult! You even said so yesterday!” 

How dare he use her own words against her?! 

“That was before I found out that you have been living inside Casita’s walls. For. A. Decade!” she snapped back, not realizing his doubts and fears, “And don't be ridiculous. You being safe with the Rojas is hardly us locking you up!”

Perhaps, Alma had overestimated the support of the other adults next to her because her daughters were talking amongst themselves from the sidelines, criticizing her.

Pepa laid her head on Félix’s shoulder and closed her eyes. “Holding on too tight, huh?” she reminded their mother while Julieta came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Mamá, it’s late,” she said, “Let’s… clear this up in the morning.”

“It was just a little slip-up,” Bruno sighed and tentatively joined his sisters, “S-stop taking everything so personally.”

“How can I not?! You are my responsibility, Brunito!” Alma yelled, about to tear out her hair.

She wasn’t overreacting. 

He was her son and she was his mother.

“I can take care of myself!” he argued and Pepa hugged him close, kissing his temple with a saddened expression.

Technically, Bruno wouldn’t have gotten through ten years without the ability to look out for himself, but Alma was too blinded by concern for her son to see it.

She was only trying to help. Her best efforts were shot down by the person who mattered so much to her. 

Was this how Mirabel had felt all those years? 

It hurt. It was excruciating.

You haven’t taken good care of yourself, Brunito. Ruining yourself is what you did!

But it was plain as day, whose fault it was that he had left in the first place, on that fateful evening.

How have I ruined you so? 

“Are you sure? As I recall, you’ve had some accomplices who have kept your whereabouts a secret!” the old woman accused, only running her mouth for the sake of arguing with her son as it was one of the last things that reminded her of his past self. Never had she thought she would find morbid joy in fighting with him. 

“Would you have made it through your time inside the walls without Dolores covering your back and going behind ours?”

“Hey!” Pepa warned immediately but Alma ignored her, knowing that she was making more and more mistakes while she tried to regain her authority. A Queen wouldn’t bow when a revolution was on the way even if it meant falling back into old, awful habits.

I’m sorry, Mirabel.

“And Mirabel and Antonio! They found you and didn’t tell us a single word,” the old woman continued, challenging gaze swerving to Julieta and Agustín, “And now Camilo is your partner-in-crime— It seems like the only children who are still reliable are Luisa and… Isabela!”

Isabela, I haven't betrayed you yet, right?

“Almost none of the children are trustworthy… and I think it’s best to keep you away from them,” she said flatly. Dios forbid she didn’t mean it, but worry had always crippled her with fear. “We can’t handle another scare.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Bruno replied quietly, mentioning that his mother was the one not making any sense, “Mamá, you don’t need to keep me safe from my sobrinitas and sobrinitos." 

“Don’t I? How can any of us be sure that you won’t get any dangerous and absurd ideas again, then?” Alma hissed and crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow.

Bruno’s lip quivered in doubt, and he looked to his oldest sister for help, the only one who knew how much spending time with his niblings meant to him.

“Don’t worry about it, hermanito,” Julieta assured him, completely foregoing Alma’s plan, and the old woman was confused by the sudden role reversal between her daughters. 

Julieta, always so meek and compliant was confronting her while her usually louder sister was fading into the background.

“Let’s wrap this up, Mamá,” Julieta pressed, frowning with well-concealed annoyance when the older woman tapped her arm in thought.

“We’ll meet up right by the site, by Casita, tomorrow. No big breakfast together,” Alma decided after a pause because she could look better after her son without many people around to distract her, and faced Agustín, “It’d be good if you cleared everything up with your family as early as possible.”

Agustín nodded with great hesitation, not liking the position he had been shoved into at all.

Félix noticed his brother’s distress and smiled at him although he really didn’t feel like it. “I’ll come with you,” he said, patting the taller man’s shoulder, “It’s been a while since we’ve gone on a stroll together.”

Looking at them all, and the misery he had accidentally caused, Bruno chortled to himself with hollow amusement. 

“All this because I’m Bruno and everyone always assumes the worst,” he observed numbly, and it was the last thing he said before he hung his head and didn’t react when Alma took him by the hand as she tugged him to the door. 

The frigid evening air hit her face and the old woman breathed in, trying to clear her head. 

“We’ll sleep at the Guzmáns’ tonight,” she informed her son, who only gave her a flat look.

‘You never listen to me so why should I talk to you?’ went unsaid in his expression and Alma clutched his hand ever so tightly.

Direct it on me, Brunito. Despise me infinitely if that's what it takes to help you heal. I can take it. 

It is more than what I deserve.

The other adults followed her back into town along with the unsettled children who had been waiting for them. Pepa held her sons close while Antonio slept on her chest, Dolores walking shoulder to shoulder with her father. The family moved quickly until the old woman saw her daughter taking a wrong turn.

“Where are you going?” she demanded and Julieta halted by her children, raising her chin while Luisa, Mirabel, and Isabela stared back at Alma with discomfort.

“To my daughters,” Julieta explained assertively, daring the old woman to say something against it, “Because I have been one terrible mother lately.”

With that, she led her three children away from the main road but the comment, the jab, prevailed like a sting. Alma huffed at her defiance and narrowed her eyes until she had brought the rest of the family back to the Guzmán estate. 

Once there, Bruno was still unresponsive when Alma cleaned his muddy hands and feet over a tub, his body stiff but also slacked like a doll, removed and untouchable like a portrait. Like one certain covered portrait that had survived the collapse, her heart screamed, catapulting her into the past again.

While Julieta had always played by the rules, Pepa had been the one to sneak out a lot, and Bruno… had been a mix of both, just like everything else. He had been the least but somehow most confrontational child when it came down to what he believed in.

And the argument they had just had was an obvious testimony to that.

However, his limbs twitched when she rubbed soap over them, so intensely that it bubbled because he saw them as something tainted, something flawed his mother wanted to eliminate, to correct.  

The way his breath hitched when she angled herself around him to rinse it off told Alma enough that he was trying his hardest not to respond to her attempts at reconciliation.

Even though he was angry with her, he still adored her, all the same.

Bruno remained quiet when she folded up his poncho and tucked him into bed, eyes glued to the ceiling in rebellion as he avoided her stare. 

It was childish, Alma thought with as much irritation as fondness, taking in his profile. The latter feeling only increased when Pepa cuddled up to her brother, almost completely hogging his designated mattress and falling asleep on his chest like a clingy, well-meaning ginger cat.

She was weighing him down so that he couldn’t leave them again.

But when Alma thought his accommodating reaction to his sister was also an invitation for her to touch him after she had laid down next to him, she was sorely mistaken. 

Wrinkled hands were about to brush a strand of hair out of his eyes, one last attempt to make amends. Then they finally did acknowledge her with a shuddering intensity, gleaming with betrayal and love and hate.

Because when it came to the Madrigals, they were one and the same.

Her son didn't need a Gift to enhance his expression. He had always worn his heart on his sleeve and his feelings in bare light. He had always been an honest boy that spread the truth not many could stand to hear.

Alma froze for a second, fingers suddenly more careful and unsure, until she lowered them completely when Bruno turned away from her although his sister's full weight was pressing down on him.

And once more Alma wondered where she had gone wrong.

Pedro had been killed when he wanted to protect them, but Alma would kill to defend her family.

Was she a criminal for wanting to safeguard someone so incredibly precious to her?

One might think that life in the Encanto was all too easy and burdenless. There was enough food to eat, rivers with water so clear to satiate the beginning of thirst, generous soil, and high walls of mountains all around that protected the sacred inside.

But on some days, the dark reality caught up with them and reminded the residents of the bloodshed it had been built on. After all, wherever there was light, was also shadow.

Alma heaved herself up the way to the porch with a wariness far beyond her 33 years of age. But she felt she was aging quicker than most people in general. The horrors she had seen had taken a toll on her and showed themselves in the tenseness of her back, the buckling of her knees, and her trembling jaw.

Grief for a life lost always hit her like a tidal wave. She had calmed down since her beloved Pedro’s death but experiences like the one that lay right behind her always made the shadowy feelings boil over.

Only a few more steps and she could let herself fall, taking off the grandeur of a leader and taking a moment for herself to simply be Alma.

Lonely, sad, and pathetic Alma.

“Hola, Casita,” the woman choked out, her voice cracking, and delicately patted the front door of her living home. 

Casita answered her call, uncannily subdued whenever she was like this, and let Alma step inside. It was almost as if they were connected by something far beyond a worldly understanding.

The coat rack bowed to her and helped to pull the black shawl off her shoulders, but the woman denied the offer, tightening the cloth around her body. It was a cloak of mourning, and it was more appropriate to wear it now than it had been in years.

Casita understood and pulled back, sensing her discomfort. Tiles pushed Alma to the staircase as she mounted it with difficulties, hoping to keep her sobs down.

“Don’t tell them I’m back,” Alma spoke to her house, ankle almost giving out when she set her foot a step higher, “I don’t want them to see me like this.”

Casita silently obeyed and pushed her up one stair so that she reached her safe haven sooner. 

‘Alma’ her glowing door featured, in the middle of three others. The woman stared at her likeness and, as so often, disliked how it presented her. It displayed her face in a distorted but perfect way, so different from what she actually was like. 

She wasn’t strong, she wasn’t composed and most of all, there was a constant sliver of panic behind her stony exterior.

However, she didn’t linger on it for too long, like every day, and entered her room, the only place in Casita where she truly felt at home, wanting nothing more than to collapse on the ground. She swayed and kicked off her shoes, order discarded and overlooked.

Alma shuddered and faced the familiar surroundings, taking in the same old bed, the night table next to it, the blue candle lamp, and her beloved’s depiction, visage forever immortalized in a fraction of time.

There it was, untouched and untainted, the remnant of her past life.

Or a life she had never gotten to live.

With tears in her eyes, she removed the long pin from her hair that had held her meticulous bun in place, two callow pigtails now draping themselves over her shoulders. She slumped forward and staggered to the bed as she collapsed on top of the crocheted covers, burying her face in the first pillow she could grab.

She wailed, muffling her sorrows in the fabric, tears gluing her eyelids together and defeat compressing her chest.

It was all too intimate and the buried feelings of helplessness and inadequacy embittered the woman.

So she did what she always did when everything became too much, and spoke to her dead husband from an unquiet grave.

Tenderly, she caressed the picture of black and white she had snatched off the table, holding the wooden frame with love and pain. 

Because they were one and the same.

The images she had of Pedro had him forever frozen in a shot of ageless beauty while Alma would wither and die after years of holding them up to her lips.

“Ay, Pedro,” Alma spoke with sorrow, catching two unmoving but warm eyes, “I can’t go on like this.”

And it was true, her battered body confirmed. It had been standing beside another, devastated woman the entire night, clutching her hand and making empty promises although her sick child had been coughing his little soul out.

Within, Alma had known that the child wouldn’t survive the night but she had tried to ease a different mother’s pain. Blind optimism had never done anyone good.

If the situation was worse than expected or underestimated, someone could die.

And then, the young boy had not made it to see the sunrise. The doctor, Señor Ramírez, had been defeated beyond belief, doubting his expertise and abilities. He had stormed out of the sick room and retreated into the mountains, swearing to the grieving family that he would only return if he could save a child. 

Alma had let him go, too exhausted and shocked to speak with authority even though she was their unappointed leader. She had no right to intervene, she couldn’t command him to stay. 

And as the small body had been removed from the house, draped underneath white, pure linen, the priest had bid the child farewell on his way back to God, blessing the boy one last time with holy water.

There had been no Miracle to come to the rescue of that family, and it made Alma feel ever the more guilty.

“He was only four years old,” the woman said, her labored breath coming out in hitches, “I couldn’t save him.”

Pedro didn’t answer her, of course not, although she wished nothing more than to lay in his loving embrace while he muttered reassurances to her, sheltering and unwavering.

“I could only stand there and watch, on the sidelines. I should have— I should have d-done something,” she went on, clasping the frame to her chest and looking up at the low ceiling, near hysterics.

“I’m a horrible person, Pedro. How have you ever fallen in love with me? I’m too weak. I’m too weak, Pedro!” she yelled out, rocking on the bed like a suffocating fish on land.

Memories of the first night in the Encanto washed over her, all having started with expectant and grateful looks the other refugees had given her, right after she had picked up the eternal Candle. 

The ground had been damp, and the three undersized babies in her arms were calm under a moonlit sky, the golden sparkles in the air distracting from the horror that had transpired a moment before. 

Alma hadn’t had a moment to linger on Pedro’s death or the fantastic world that had built itself around her. Only she had received an accommodation for all those people, and Casita had been filled to the brim with exhausted strangers the first night. Alma had hurried through the halls, never letting go of her babies, making sure the strangers (since only the mutual past in their previous village connected them) had what they needed. Some of them had been injured during their journey, either through falling or their anxious escape from their pursuers.

The following weeks had flown by, full of a similar routine but always new problems to solve. And they had started looking to Alma for everything. They had fully depended on her generosity and the young woman hadn’t been unaware of the unwanted power she had over the people (children, mothers, fathers, grandparents, uncles, nieces—). 

She had possessed the option to cut off all means of supply on a whim and leave them to die.

The thought had never once crossed her mind, of course, despite the depression and fury at the world that had blossomed in her chest.

Rage no magic could diminish, pain that could not be healed.

It had been like they, the inhabitants of a now manageable village, were grateful to her, almost indebted, although she hadn’t done anything to earn their trust. She had only had the worst day of her life. But the people had expected Alma to guide them like a shepherd, the one appointed by the Lord to keep them safe.

She hadn’t wanted to disappoint them, hurling herself to every inauguration of new shops and buildings she had been admiringly invited to, like the slapped-together school. She had cut bows made of ropes with a wide smile and happy eyes that had harbored grief behind them like sunglasses. If there were difficulties, she had always been consulted first. Alma had been granted the jurisdiction over the past, the present, and the future.

The young woman hadn’t thought that so much responsibility was borne from ill-will but she had been too inexperienced, too doe-eyed to protect the Encanto.

“I’m a failure,” Alma sobbed, the lump in her throat growing with each word, “I betrayed what we’ve been given.”

“Help me, Pedro,” she mumbled and begged, closing her eyes and trying to overcome the stabbing pain in her chest, “Please… help me.”

“It might have only been one child,” she blurted out although there was no audience to judge her, feeling ashamed of her insensitive words in the next second, “What am I even saying? Every loss of a child, of a loved one, is a wound that never heals. You must know, right? If you can see me… if you can hear me.”

Like a rock, she rolled over the mattress to the opposite side, legs feeling unused and untrained as she staggered to the window watching out over the courtyard. 

She fell to the ground, resting her forehead on the sill right in front of the Candle that flickered undisturbed, and bowing in front of it like an altar although she felt unworthy to do so.

“But,” she breathed, tracing the glowing butterfly pattern on the ever-lasting wax, “Children are our future. The Encanto… our home… will die without them, Pedro.”

She frowned, her lip hanging low and her knees tense. 

“I’m useless as a mother and leader… I couldn’t save him,” she repeated, setting the picture frame next to the Cadle, trying to think back to their wedding day, unburned times, and hopeful, almost ignorant optimism blanketing the young couple, “‘Doña Alma’, they call me. What a joke. What a lie. It’s almost like the poor young woman you’ve made your wife has suddenly turned into a sublime widow.”

“The villagers are wrong about me, Pedro. And what have I been doing?! Trying to be something, someone I’m not!” Alma went on, tears fuzzing her perception of her loved one, “I have fooled them all. But now, they have to see that I’m a hoax, Pedro. There’s not only glimmering light but there’s also unspoken invisible pain.”

“Open my eyes!” she begged, scrambling to her feet, “I want to keep them safe, I don’t want them to live in fear. But when the most vulnerable of us are being taken away— there will be unrest. And instability. Don’t we deserve to live in peace for once, my love?”

Alma let out a shuddering breath and propped up her arms on the sill, hulking over the hopeful flame. Her gaze swept away from it and out into the courtyard, observing the circular tile pattern on the ground.

One step, one unfortunate fall, and she would join her love in the afterlife. One rash decision borne from a second of carelessness and sorrow and she would be an unmoving pile of flesh on the floor. 

Would she look beautiful with a cracked skull, bathed in a stream of blood that would pool out of it, like Pedro?

Would the villagers who found her a few hours later simply shrug their shoulders and mutter a knowing ‘She just wasn’t strong enough,’ before they removed her corpse?

Would she also be dressed in white like the little boy she had failed today?

It would be more than what I deserve.

Alma grinned at the idea that it could all be over so quickly and leaned forward with curiosity, the wood hollowly screaming at her in protest.

Their wedding candle flickered forebodingly underneath a darkening sky, like a warning, and she huffed at it, pulled back from her morbid dream state. Alma knew that Casita would never let this "accident" happen, but when all seemed bleak, she hoped she could get away with it.

“Hold me one last time, Pedro,” she spoke quietly, wishing for the blissful embrace of death to release her from a pained life.

I’m no magician. I can’t bring back the dead… I’m just human!

The air was moist as she breathed it in, coating the inside of her lungs like she was drowning instead, in the petal river where her childhood had come to a gruesome end. 

With her back straight and neck at a regal high, she closed her eyes one more time, blocking out the present by concentrating on feeling nothing at all. 

She was startled when the door handle rustled as tiny hands tried to push it down from the outside, three different muffled voices fighting over who got to enter the room first.

Alma huffed a laugh and quickly wiped her tears away, her arms slack as she held her hands. Magnificent and fierce like a Queen she turned and just caught how the door finally burst open and her children stormed inside, unbothered and free.

“Mami!” they greeted her in unison, making Alma wonder if they were wired in the same way despite having such differing personalities. Their trampling was as loud as a flock of birds to her ears that had been accustomed to silence, and Pepa even tripped over her feet.

Alma cringed when she saw her fall, but her younger daughter was as breezy as ever and grinned up at her, completely unperturbed, sucking in a gob of spit through the gap between her front teeth.

Ah, yes, my little sunshine.

“Why didn’t you tell us you’re back?” Julieta asked with a raised eyebrow, hugging Alma’s legs. 

“Ay, Juli,” she explained, running her hand through soft dark locks and smoothing out the white bow on her eldest’s head, “I’ve had a difficult time. I just needed a moment to breathe. Some me-time.”

There was so much thought and concern behind her young eyes, contemplation stopping before realization as the girl bit her lip, nodding to herself. Alma was sure that if she encouraged her to speak, she would, but Juli had a good grasp on the things that adults really didn’t like to talk about. 

She understood the complexities of the world, perhaps more than any eight-year-old should. 

“Okay?” Alma asked, stroking her round cheek, “Hasn’t Casita been taking good care of you?”

Julieta nodded again, pursing her lips. Alma could see uneasiness run through her daughter, but she was always so calm. The mother wasn’t sure if she wanted to take credit for it, the bad thought of accidentally having robbed Julieta of a piece of her childhood dawning on her.

The girl spoke up again, at last having decided to press the topic: “Yes, but—”

“You were gone all night, Mami,” her little Brunito pointed out from the side, wringing his hands. A tender smile pulled at Alma’s lips when she took in her small son, being ever so nervous and skittish.

She didn’t know why, it might have been the resemblance to Pedro, that always made Alma weak at the knees at the sight of her boy. 

She crouched down, at last abandoning her role as village head and being there for her children, a mother in all her glory. Her back leaned against the wall under the open window, the Candle and Pedro watching over them.

Alma pulled her son into her lap, and he cuddled into her bosom as if she had left them to fend for themselves for weeks. Her Brunito had always been the clingiest of her triplets and Alma probably had had a hand in it. The boy had needed extra care and attention as a newborn when stress and grief had ebbed her milk supply, but he had pulled through as she had kept him close.

All of her children had, thank goodness.

She had already left three unused cradles in her previous home.

“C’mere, all of you,” she said and opened her arms to her daughters to hold them close, pressing kisses on her children’s heads when they were lined up. 

And as Pepa squealed, Julieta giggled, and Bruno hummed, the four of them, warm and alive, their lungs breathing and their hearts pumping, huddled together.

A small, but strong, family.

Alma was truly blessed, and it showed in her resurfacing tears. “My miracles,” she gushed and rested her head lightly on her son’s, damping his hair.

“Is the rain making you sad again, Mami?” Pepa asked and scrambled to her legs that were somewhat too long for her torso, stance bold and proud.

“Go away, clouds!” the girl yelled and shook a tiny, yet assertive, fist at the vast sky. It was comical that such a small girl wanted to reign in the elements but at once the clouds seemed to fade and the sun broke through the curtain of blue, shining on the crown of Alma’s head.

Right, her miracles had acquired Gifts in their own rights that Alma still couldn’t help but be somewhat suspicious of. The magical rooms that had appeared on their Fifth Birthday had been quite the change already. It must have been Casita's sign that they were old enough to sleep separately and leave the nursery (or Alma’s bedroom).

But the powers they had gotten—

Well, Alma thought they could have done without them.

Being a single mother had been hard, even more so when one daughter could change the weather on a whim (inside and outside the house), the other needed a constant outlet for her cooking experiments and willing guinea pigs to taste test them, while the son needed only to blink and saw your fate.

“Fate” was perhaps not the right word to describe her youngest’s powers since he tended to see everyday joys instead of destiny. But given a little more time, her children’s abilities would certainly evolve.

And as a mother, Alma was somewhat uneasy about this prospect.

Julieta stood and looked at her, sheepishly, wringing her hands on an apron she wasn’t wearing, shuffling her feet. 

“Can we make garlic bread again?” the girl asked and Alma bit down an amused grin.

This was the kind of trouble children should have, and no existential crises.

“Oh right, please!” Brunito perked up and clasped Alma’s hands between his, “I saw that it’ll be delicious!”

“I… actually made the dough already,” Julieta mumbled into the collar of her dress.

“Ah— you made the dough without supervision?!” Alma gasped and scolded, sitting up so fast that her son slid from her lap, but he scampered over to Pepa, tugging playfully at her braids in the meantime.

“But Casita made sure I was safe!” Julieta defended, “I only made the dough! No fire involved!”

Alma contemplated her story, unsure if she had gone against any pre-established rules. “Fine, but—”

A high-pitched scream cut her off and well-trained eyes snapped to the source which was, of course, her second oldest as she fended off her younger brother.

“Mh, and I’ll eat Pepa’s slice!” Bruno announced, his eyes glowing an emerald green as he stared into nothingness, bouncing Pepa’s braid in his hand.

“Brunito, stop that—!” Alma said, separating the pair, holding them apart from each other with her fists in their garments.

Pepa’s nose turned snotty, her cheeks flushing a bright red, and Alma didn’t need a Gift to tell that she was about to cry, her emotions shifting like the wind.

“Ahhh!” Pepa screeched, pointing an impolite finger at her brother, “Mamá! Bruno said he’s gonna eat my stuff!”

Alma slapped her hand away, worried about the dark cloud accumulating over her daughter’s head. “Who taught you that? That’s not nice.”

“Don’t care!” the redhead sobbed, rubbing her fists into her eye sockets as she bawled, “S’not nice to eat my snacks either!”

“Are we gonna roast the garlic now, or what?” Julieta pressed from the sidelines, surprisingly impatient for her usually calm temper.

Bruno was waving his tiny fingers in front of his eyes, still in a space between real life and whatever awaited them. "Woah, so good!"

Pepa wedged herself loose from Alma’s hold and punched her brother, the green flickering from his eyes. “You hafta apologize to me!” the older sister demanded, the cloud above bursting with rain.

“Hey, don’t hit me for something I didn’t do!” he whined through the droplets although it disguised a thoroughly entertained grin, “Yet.”

Before Pepa could jump him, enraged, Alma steered her personal circus away from her precious room and out into the hallway.

“And that’s why my Gift is the coolest!” Bruno announced and boasted to his sisters, walking to the staircase, “It doesn’t ruin Mamá’s room! And everyone likes it.”

Alma watched her boy and really wished the praise he constantly got from the villagers who flocked him wouldn’t get to his head and inflate his ego. Her son should grow up to be kind and humble, just like his father. 

“No, my Gift is better!" Pepa yelped and almost shoved her brother down the stairs, "I can make it sunny—!”

“Only when you feel good!” Julieta interjected smartly.

Pepa pouted and crossed her arms, giving her sister her infamous stink-eye. “You can’t even heal a paper cut!” the younger sibling shot back.

“Can too!” the dark-haired girl insisted, huffing, as she pursued her siblings.

And as her triplets, her babies made their way down to the kitchen, Alma closed the door after herself. She could spare one loving peer at the Candle and her Pedro’s likeness by the window, who seemed to nod at her with tender assurance.

Sometimes, it was enough to only see positive things, like her son tended to do, and Alma simply needed to trust her children with the Encanto’s well-being.

Because children weren’t blinded by the past or caught up in protecting the present.

More than that, they were the only ones who could ensure the future, and Alma would trustingly follow their lead.

A good dose of sleep had often been a blessing to calm Alma's mind when she needed it and was most likely the only reason why she could sit calmly at the table the following day, armed with a stack of paper and a pen, trying to recall their house's lost layout while her family was spread out around her.

The atmosphere wasn't ideal but neither was it unbearable while they got ready for the day. 

"Has anyone seen my shoes?" Agustín asked when he entered the living room and Señora Guzmán handed him a mochila with some food and water before he thanked her.

"They're by the stairs," Dolores supplied helpfully and glanced at Mariano out of the corner of her eye when he went to retrieve the pair for his almost-father-in-law.

"Oh, I don't know how they got there, but thanks a lot… M-mariano," Agustin fumbled and quickly put them on, almost tripping over his feet, of course.

"Man!" Camilo yawned and stretched his arms above his head when he descended the stairs, snatching a plate for a quick breakfast and settling down next to his sister, "I'm so tired! The night sure was short, eh?"

Alma knew the boy was just pushing his luck to annoy her with his remark, so she added another sentence to her notes, ignoring her grandson.

The nerves of that boy.

But naturally, it was too calm for Camilo who was far from done. Wickedly, he searched for his next victim and his gaze couldn't swerve over his interesting uncle seated at the far end of the table with Pepa next to him.

The boy had heard that Abuela didn't want to have any of the kids talk to her son. Camilo rolled his eyes, his parents sure weren't as subtle as they thought when they talked to each other about sensible information.

The teen stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth, munching on it as he lazily looked across the silent room. "So, no talking to Bruno this time?"

Alma sighed, not surprised that Camilo was making a mockery out of everything. "It seems more like my son wouldn't reply if you talked to him," she pointed out, adjusting the pen.

And it was true, other than the occasional huff, Bruno hadn’t uttered a word since the previous evening. Alma would be more worried if his face wasn't picking up the job of communicating with them and her determination was weaker than his.

If he thought that, he would be sorely mistaken. 

Because Alma would never give up.

The old woman glanced up from the paper to make sure that her son was still putting spoonfuls of porridge into his mouth. The process was slower than any of them would have liked but at least he was doing it. Pepa kindly cheered him on for good measure to ensure that every piece of chopped fruit followed the same way into his body.

But Alma noticed how Bruno halted, looking at his nephew with surprise and intrigue. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened between them in the jungle that made them rather... conversant. Camilo had barely remembered what Bruno was like from when he had gone into the walls.

The teen's lips curled into a cat-like smirk when he realized how he could overcome both obstacles that were Abuela's restriction and Tío B's very obvious insurgence. As mute as it was, of course.

With a grand gesture, Camilo pulled his brother onto his lap, patting his head like a villainous mastermind would their pet. Antonio enjoyed it, however, mimicking the gesture with his toy jaguar.

"You know, Antonio, if Tío B would reply I'd tell him how awesome he is!" Camilo began and winked at his uncle whose eyes widened at the touching exclamation.

Antonio giggled when he understood the game of Tío-Bruno-being-there-but-not-really, holding up the stuffed animal as a reminder. "Parcerito and I agree!"

"I'd tell him that I love him," Dolores joined in, loud and clear, and smiled along with her siblings, "Because he's just the best."

Bruno blushed while his eyes glossed over and buried his face in his sister's embrace. Pepa could barely contain her pride in her children and grinned at them while she caressed her brother’s head, hoping her mother knew that they were good kids.

"See? They love you," Pepa mumbled into her brother's hair with a hitch, "They love you!"

Mariano cleared his throat and made himself at home by the three Madrigal siblings, leaning against the table.

"I, well, I would tell him that if he ever wants to get a massage, I know what to do," Mariano said without understanding what was going on at all. But no one corrected him because he was simply happy to be included.

And from the side, Dolores finally fully knew they were meant to be a pair, momentarily forgetting that her older cousin was still in the way of a romantic relationship as she melted at the sight of the big man's kind face.

Alma averted her gaze back to her notepad, realizing that it was stupidly selfish of her to restrict contact with her son. She really had no business deciding it but she had been so terrified when she had said the fatal words.

"Alright," Félix announced cheerfully, dressed up in hiking gear complete with sturdy boots he had borrowed and a hat, "I'm ready to go!"

"Me too," Agustín agreed and squeezed Bruno's shoulder with a forlorn expression while Félix kissed his wife and children goodbye.

"We'll be off, then," the wider man said, also patting his small brother on the shoulder and nodding to Alma when the pair went to the door.

The old woman deemed the situation in the living room safe enough to follow them down the hallway, tugging slightly on Agustín's jacket when he exited the house. "Check in with Señor Ramírez on your way back, will you?" she urged.

"Y-yes, of course," the taller man agreed, a little on edge at the prospect of seeing his siblings again, after such a long time of radio silence. Metaphorically speaking because the Encanto didn’t have a radio station, as Bogotá seemed to.

Félix laughed and threw another hat on his brother's scalp shaking his own at how he had forgotten to put it on.

Agustín burned way more easily than he did, after all.

Alma looked behind Agustín when she heard quick footsteps hurrying toward them, and Julieta stared back at her with hardened resolve as she came up to the house, her shoulders tense but her head held high. The old woman wasn’t sure if her oldest daughter was angry or simply assertive.

In the back of her mind, Alma wondered if she had treated Mirabel unfairly again.

“Be safe, okay?” Julieta told the two men when she had interrupted her stride for them, pecking her husband on the cheek before they left.

Then her gaze was fixed on Alma again and she backed her into the house. “Mamá, I won’t take a ‘no’ for what I’m about to say,” Julieta informed the old woman and shut the door, calmy but nonetheless with more force than necessary.

Alma couldn’t help but shrink back against a cabinet, looking her daughter square in the eye.

“You and I both know that you didn’t mean what you said yesterday,” Julieta began, building herself up, her voice slightly breezy from the walk, “About Bruno and the kids.”

Alma frowned and pressed her lips together, uncomfortable but at the same time relieved that Julieta could still read her like a book. She was right, of course, but the old woman didn’t want to admit it. 

So, she didn’t reply and heard her daughter out to get an idea of where she was going with this sudden confrontation.

“Luisa requests— No, she is going to spend time with Bruno,” the younger woman stated, crossing her arms, "No matter what."

The older woman frowned but quickly deemed her third oldest granddaughter worthy and capable of possibly holding her son back if push came to shove.

“Only under heavy supervision,” Alma replied without hesitation and glanced to the side, checking if her son was still at the table.

Julieta’s brows rose up, surprised by the quick, abnormal compliance. However, she caught herself, not risking being pushed into the defensive.

“Oh, g-good. But how do you expect that to work? How do you expect them to reconcile if there are other people — I assume you mean us— hanging around them?” she challenged, “Luisa is too shy for that, and Bruno… Well, haven’t we already done enough damage?”

“Luisa isn’t shy,” Alma argued uselessly, her mind rather occupied with the notion that her son's destruction had been her fault indeed. Her fault alone.

“She is. She very much is!” Julieta insisted, somehow panicky but collected as she pinched the sleeves over her elbows, “I’m her mother and I only realized it a few hours ago! She doesn’t trust me or herself. She was tense when I touched her and didn’t want to talk to me. I felt like I was intruding when I spent time with my own daughters.”

The younger woman sighed and flagged a demonstrative hand at the other. “It hurts, Mamá, and that’s why I can understand you.”

That made the old woman alert. It appeared like Alma wasn’t dealing with such an unfortunate and draining situation alone and she wasn’t sure if the thought comforted her.

We're all terrible parents, aren't we? We don't know anything about our children.

And in Alma's case that included the very woman talking to her, openly, like she had never done before.

Julieta’s expression softened and her lips pulled into a small, affectionate smile when she came back to the topic of her brother. “Bruno has always been so good with children, or can’t you remember? He’s always been such a doting tío to all of them. We can’t take that role away from him, Mamá. It would be the worst decision we could make to deny him his former place in the family, or rather, the place he has never lost at all.”

Her Brunito had such a big heart, and the fleeting interactions he had with children had left Alma no place to doubt it. His exchange with the little girl Cecilia, Toñito and his stuffed animal on the sofa, his nieces and nephews...

The short conversation where Bruno hadn't even spoken just now had opened Alma's eyes.

The mother's eyes burned, and she was sure their edges had turned red when she couldn’t hold back a sniffle. “I’m just so worried, Julieta,” she whispered, her voice cracking and raw and honest as she pulled the other woman gently into the office room so that they couldn’t be overheard, letting down her guard.

“So am I,” her daughter agreed softly and stroked Alma’s upper arm, “There’s nothing I’d rather do than to t-tie him up in a blanket, feed him the best food I could make, and never see him move again outside my proximity.”

“But Mamá—,” Julieta breathed in exasperation and fear, “One slip up now and we'll lose him. For good.”

“Do you think I don't know that?!” Alma shrieked, uncontrolled, heavy tears threatening to fall.

“We saw how he was yesterday,” the daughter reminded her mother, “He made an effort to explain himself to us. And he knows that he’s not fine.”

“But he also knows that he isn’t as unwell as we think,” Julieta elaborated and Alma faltered, “It’s going to be okay. Bruno is going to be okay; we all are!” 

Alma could only stare as her daughter took her hands and looked at her with dark eyes filled to the brim with compassion and hope. Never before had Julieta and Mirabel looked so alike. 

“Will you trust me with this one?” Julieta asked, slowly, and in the same way, Alma’s head bobbed, wanting to put all her confidence into her children.

“Yes,” the old, weary woman approved, captivated by her daughter’s commitment and good intent. Alma closed her eyes, and imagined herself by the river outside the Encanto, water gliding over her ankles, cool and refreshing, and not hot and devastating like the blood that had once been spilled there.

Julieta grinned and pulled her mother into a hug, who stiffened in surprise, although her arms longingly reached up to caress her daughter’s back.

How long had it been since Alma had been blessed with a hug she hadn’t initiated? When had professional distance come between herself and her family, and caused such a rift?

Was Alma, perhaps, finally on the right track?

Her daughter smiled widely and gave Alma one last squeeze, elated that they were on the same page for the first time in forever before she ran past her to tell her little brother the great news. The old woman felt complete when she saw her children in one place again, laughing and gasping, undisturbed.

“Luisa is waiting for you by the site," Julieta informed her brother with excitement, "She would like to talk to you a bit, but only if you feel up t—,” Julieta said but was cut off by her brother once he finally spoke again.

“Really?” Bruno beamed as he interrupted her, springing up from his seat, while Pepa collected his dishes with a smirk she threw at Julieta.

The oldest sister smiled when her brother sheepishly rubbed his head in embarrassment. “I thought you wouldn’t let me do anything,” he admitted, although he was far from incorrect, and chuckled, “Dios, I’m glad I was wrong! Hey, what can I do? Collect more rubble or maybe find broken pipes, or maybe cut up some stones?”

Bruno was so eager to help that he drove Julieta back with his animated movements, and Alma felt like it was her duty to step in, even if she had to put a damper on things and possibly anger her son again.

But it will be worth it.

“You can organize the pillows and check them for damage,” the old woman stated drily, picking up her notes from the table. 

Bruno snorted and raised an eyebrow, convinced she was joking. But then again, his mother rarely was. “Are you serious?”

“You will not be handling any objects you could hurt yourself with,” Alma went on as she folded the papers, "That's the condition."

He sighed and was about to roll his eyes, but the deep respect he had for his mother kept him from going through with it. “Mamá, I may not always be the most graceful person, but I know how to be careful… different from Gus.”

It wasn’t at all what she had meant, but Alma was too numb and tense to explain that it was the intentional act of hurting himself that she was anxious about. Was he just messing with her and had purposely misinterpreted her words?

Her conscience eased when Bruno came up to her without any aversion whatsoever and hugged her so strongly and passionately that the old woman noticed her legs buckle again. Her son had always made her weak at the knees, after all.

“You won’t regret this!” Bruno told her earnestly and touched the back of her head, kissing her hair as he pulled her closer.

Alma thought she was about to faint again, but instead of the black pit of despair, there was only dreamy lightheadedness that overcame her as she lay in her little son’s embrace.

It feels so much nicer to be loved than hated.

And even though there was disagreement when Alma and Julieta settled Bruno on a chair at the construction site, and watched him and Luisa talk from behind a wagon, the old woman was relieved that her son still cared so much about the people around him. 

His conversation with Luisa went far from swimmingly at first with the girl crying and Bruno trying to comfort her, but he did succeed, and Alma almost burst with pride and melted with elation when she saw them hug, too.

“See, Mamá? We can’t stop him from doing what he wants. He needs someone to care and watch out for,” Julieta noted and shrunk back behind the wagon, “I couldn’t make Luisa smile yesterday, not once. But Bruno just did! We have to trust his judgment like we always have. Even if we don’t like it.”

Alma didn’t have any other choice than to agree, gaze swerving back to her son as he rubbed his broad niece’s back like it was the most normal thing to do after having lived alone for ten years.

But was she really surprised by this? Because the same way that trees grow and fall, the young surpass the old— it’s the way of the world to rely on the new generation to shape the future.

And now, it was time for Alma to let go.