Sacrifice
With her power gone, and funnily enough, all the pressure that had gradually accumulated over the years, she felt lighter than she ever had. It took no effort for her to keep her shoulders back— years of proper posture drilled into her was hard to shake and also she had read somewhere that it was good for her spine, let her live. With this newfound lightness, she felt like a child, new to the world and new to herself, as if she was meeting who she was for the very first time.
It was exciting. And bittersweet.
This was somebody she should have known long ago but shoved away in favor of contorting herself into whatever mold Abuela had— either wittingly or unwittingly— set out for her.
Following in her Mamá’s— the original Golden Child’s— footsteps was a daunting, nigh impossible task. She wondered if Mamá ever felt like she was drowning under the pressure of her gift. If she had sleepless nights like Isabela did, staring at the ceiling and picking apart every interaction until they were nothing more than a series of imperfect movements that she had to do better.
Maybe Isabela should ask how she did it.
Maybe she should just leave it to rot like her abandoned roses.
----
Casita’s ruins cut like a knife.
Isabela had not been back since The Collapse. It hurt too much to look at, to see the home she had lived in for twenty-two years, reduced to a pile of rubble.
Mirabel had managed to drag her out of the house with a strained grin and a grip tight enough to leave nail marks on her hand. If Isabela was feeling como la mierda, then Mirabel was most likely feeling ten times as bad. She wished she could get her hermanita to talk to her about it, but they had not reached that level of trust yet, no matter how much that fact hurt.
It was because of that fact, that Isabela let Mirabel drag her out of their temporary house and up the hill where Casita lay. It was why she now found herself carefully clearing out a section of the rubble, slowly unearthing dried, withered vines and shredded flower petals, with Mamá working quietly next to her.
Mirabel had been working with her just moments before but turned an alarming shade of white when she came across a faded letter ‘A’ and a dirtied drawing. Before Isabela could even say anything, Mamá was there, shooing Mirabel away with a gentle smile and an order to take a break.
Isabela wordlessly went back to work, tossing the more manageable rocks onto the growing pile, and Mamá slipped in beside her, easy as breathing.
She realized that this was the first time in a long time that she and Mamá had spent an extended amount of time together. Their duties pulled them in opposite directions and Isabela had made a conscious effort to not get injured.
One should never mar perfection, after all.
Even so, there were some things that Mamá’s food could not heal, and the cracks and fissures in her soul were one of them.
But now, their duties had pulled them to the same place. Except they were not bound by duty or El Milagro or impatient townspeople clamoring for their attention.
It was just Isabela and Julieta, hija y mamá, two broken women combing through the remains of a shattered home.
The question pushed against her teeth, resting heavily on her tongue.
“How did—” She stopped, staring at her plaster-covered hands. Mamá looked over with a raised brow, pausing in her work as she waited for Isabela to formulate her thoughts.
“How did you do it?” she asked, voice quieter and frailer than she would have preferred.
Mamá tilted her head, eyes knowing. “Do what, mija?”
“How did you do it and not crumble?” Isabela asked. “How did you do it and not hateyourself?”
Mamá sighed, taking a seat on the remains of a wall.
“Our familia has always been too good at masks,” Mamá said tiredly. She looked older than she ever had before, with slumped shoulders and dusty hair. “Every day was a struggle for me to get up and serve the Encanto. My back ached, my wrists cramped, my feet felt like I was walking on daggers by the end of the day, and when I got home I still had to cook dinner and prepare for tomorrow.”
Isabela felt like she could not breathe. She felt like she was watching the perfect image of Julieta Madrigal get smashed to bits by one of Casita’s rocks.
“It was torturous, monotonous, never-ending work— I crumbled every day,” she said with a bitter smile. “And I forcefully built myself back up because I could not afford to fail.” Mamá spread her hands in a helpless sort of ‘what can you do?’ gesture. “Para la familia, ¿sí? I’m sure you’re familiar with that mantra. 'Para el milagro,' 'para El Encanto,' para everybody but myself. I never wanted you to have that same fate pero, what Doña Madrigal wants, she gets. And now look where we are.”
Isabela looked around at Casita’s ruins and hurled the rock she had been fiddling with at a precariously tilting wall. It went down with a cloud of dust and Isabela flinched at the sight of one of her statues.
There she stood, in all her dusty green and pink glory, with one arm gracefully extended towards the sky, and a carefully arranged face that portrayed nothing but contentment.
Isabela wanted nothing more than to burn it where it stood.
“Isa…” Mamá whispered, after a moment. “What—”
Isabela stood and pushed the statue over without a second thought, watching as the painstakingly positioned body crumbled to dust.
“You’re right, about our familia being too good with masks,” she said quietly. “My mask is all I know. Without it, I am nothing.”
Two strong, warm, slightly dusty arms wrapped around her. For the first time in too long, Isabela let herself lean on her Mamá, let herself bury her face in Mamá’s shoulder, and shake apart, trusting that Mamá would catch all the pieces of herself and fit them back together.
“Who you are, Isabela Madrigal,” Mamá whispered fiercely, “is a wonderful, strong, independent, caring young woman, just starting on her path in life and I am so proud of you, mija.” It was whispered into her hair, just loud enough for Isabela to hear. She just gripped her Mamá tighter and nodded.
----
There were days when she would feel terrible for snapping at Mirabel over something trivial, when Dolores would pass by her with a sharp glare to hide the pain and heartbreak in her eyes, when the villagers kept asking and taking and complaining, because no matter what she did, it was never perfect enough for them. On those days her thoughts turned down one particular path that she loathed with every fiber of her being.
On those days, Isabela could not help but resent her Abuelo.
She never knew him, for obvious reasons, and he was more of a legend, a myth, an unofficial god whose sacrifice granted them El Milagro, than he was a relative.
Isabela supposed she could relate to the sacrifice bit of his story. She had already given up so much of herself for her familia, for El Encanto, she may as well already be dead.
What was one more sacrifice in the grand scheme of things, anyway? What was one more sacrifice in the name of keeping El Milagro strong?
But then again, how much sacrifice was too much? How much was she supposed to sacrifice before she could finally put herself first?
How long until she sacrificed something that she could not take back?
Why didn’t Abuelo just run? Let someone else take the fall and the burden of El Milagro instead of them. At least he would still be here, at least they would still be happy.
At least Isabela would not feel as lost as she did now, mourning a childhood she never got to have.
----
Isabela sat outside, on the ground, not caring for once that her clothes were getting stained. She stared up at the sky and watched as the sun set, mapped the colors in her mind, and imagined them as a shower of petals, raining down on her.
A breeze drifted through the yard and skittered across her back, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She fought back a shiver and jumped when the warm wool of a blanket settled across her shoulders. Reflexively, her fingers tangled into the blanket as a familiar maroon dress came into view.
“Ay Dios,” Abuela groaned, as she gingerly lowered herself onto the ground, next to Isabela. “My joints aren’t as young as they used to be.”
Isabela glanced at her with furrowed brows. “Lo siento.”
Abuela waved her apology off with a tired smile. “Está bien,” she replied. “¿Por qué estás afuera en el frío?”
Isabela looked away, digging her fingers into the dirt. “Solo estaba…” She blew out a hard sigh. “Pensando.”
“Ah.” Abuela shifted slightly and folded her hands primly onto her lap. Isabela fought the urge to straighten her spine and do the exact same. She was comfortable like this, hunched over with her knees up to her chest and the blanket draped over her like a dramatic cape. “Sí, I think we have all been given ample time para pensar.”
Isabela nodded. A heavy silence settled between them and she dug her fingers deeper into the dirt. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things she wanted to know.
“What is it, mi flor?” Abuela asked. “You look like you have a lot on your mind.”
She inhaled deeply and turned her head, not quite meeting Abuela’s eyes. “Why’d you do it?” she asked.
‘It’ could mean a lot of things, and Isabela was not entirely sure what she meant by the word but Abuela seemed to understand. For all her faults, Alma Madrigal had always been perceptive. She did not answer for several moments, and just as Isabela began to think that she would not answer at all, Abuela spoke.
“I was scared,” she said. “I had lost everything and gained almost all of it back in the span of mere seconds.” Abuela paused, staring up at the sky as the stars began to twinkle into view. “It does something to you, it seeps into your soul and never leaves. All I had were mis bebés and a magical house born from my husband’s sacrifice and I never wanted to feel that same terror or watch anybody I loved sacrifice themselves in the same way.”
“Did you ever—” Isabela paused but then soldiered on, genuinely wanting to know the answer. “—get mad that… Abuelo… died?”
Abuela inhaled sharply and Isabela saw her eyes glisten in the dim light. “When I was younger, with three little babies wailing and a community demanding to be led, I sometimes thought that your Abuelo had taken the easy way out.” It was nothing more than a whisper that Isabela had to strain to hear. She had a feeling she was the first person Abuela had ever admitted this to, that this was the first time Abuela had ever said it aloud. “And I hated myself for it the moment it crossed my mind.”
“I get mad at him too,” Isabela quietly replied.
Abuela looked over, confused but not mad. That was a good sign. “¿Por qué?”
“For leaving you and Mamá and everyone.” Isabela pulled her hand from the dirt and shook it off. “For leaving me, in a way. If he was still here, you’d be happy, Tío Bruno never would’ve left, I wouldn’t have had to be someone I didn’t— I wouldn’t have had to live up to the image of me you had in your mind.”
It started with a confession.
“I’m not perfect, Abuela,” she whispered, more to the stars than to the woman sitting beside her. “I don’t like pink or roses or… or boys.” She swallowed harshly, blinking back the tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes. “Lamento no poder ser eso para ti.”
Beside her, Abuela shifted, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close.
“You don’t have to be anyone but yourself,” Abuela replied. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize, but I’m hoping you’ll forgive me for that one day.”
But it ended with one too.
“Okay,” she whispered, leaning into Abuela’s warmth as they stared up at the stars. For the first time in years, Isabela felt like she could breathe, as if the weight on her chest that had haunted her ever since she touched the glowing door knob on the wall and felt El Milagro rocket through her veins had finally fallen away.
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