Mirabel Had To Go

12. Distance

Alma stood before the gathered townsfolk, their voices a cacophony of questions and concerns. 

"Where is Julieta? My son is sick!"

"Luisa always helps us with the heavy lifting—how are we supposed to manage?" 

"Pepa controls the weather! It’s been a mess since she left!"

The demands piled up, each word pressing down on her, suffocating her. She tried to explain, to keep her composure, but the voices drowned her out. The people of Encanto had long relied on the Madrigals, expecting them to always be there, always serving, never faltering. 

Frustration flared in Alma’s chest. "Then solve your own problems," she snapped, her voice carrying across the crowd. "For too long, you have depended on my family to do everything for you. Figure it out yourselves!" 

The stunned silence that followed was heavy. Some looked at her with hurt, others with anger, but Alma turned and walked away, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. 

Days passed, and the town fumbled without the Madrigals. Farmers struggled without Isabella’s touch to ensure a bountiful harvest. Repairs that Luisa would have handled now required groups of men working twice as hard. With Julieta gone, sicknesses lingered longer, and even the weather was unpredictable without Pepa’s careful balance. 

Alma, watching all of this, tried to help where she could. She attempted to mend broken fences, carry sacks of grain, offer what little guidance she could to worried villagers. But she was old. Her hands ached, her back protested, and she found herself more of a hindrance than a help. 

And that was when the realization struck her. 

How often had she told Mirabel that she was meant to contribute, that she should try harder despite not having a miracle? Yet here Alma was, powerless and struggling, and the hypocrisy of it settled like a stone in her stomach. All this time… I have been no different than her. 

That night, Alma sat in Casita, sore and solemn. The house, once so lively, was now eerily quiet, its silence pressing in on her like a reminder of all she had lost. She traced the worn patterns on the table with a trembling finger, thinking of her Pedro’s words, of the family she had driven away.

Would they ever come back? 

A sudden knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts. 

"Señora Alma!" A child’s voice called out, brimming with excitement. "They’re back! Everyone is back!" 

Alma’s heart stuttered. They’re back? 

She shot to her feet faster than she thought possible, stumbling toward the door. As she stepped outside, her eyes searched frantically, and then—there they were. 

Her family stood at the entrance to Encanto, their faces alight with joy. Julieta, Agustín, Pepa, Félix, their children—every single one of them. And at the center, her eyes drawn to her as if by fate, was Mirabel. 

They found her.

Alma’s breath hitched. Her heart swelled with relief, joy threatening to spill into tears. She took a step forward, reaching out as she called, "Mi familia!" 

But then—something changed. 

The moment they saw her, their open, happy expressions dimmed. Their joy, once so freely displayed, was suddenly measured, controlled, as if seeing her had reminded them of something painful. 

Alma froze. The excitement in her chest withered, replaced by a cold, twisting ache. 

She knew that look.