Mirabel Had To Go

13. The End

Alma drifted through the haze of unconsciousness, her body numb, her mind slipping between past and present. 

She saw Julieta, small hands covered in flour, a nervous but determined look on her young face. The little girl held up a poorly made arepa, its edges uneven, its color slightly off. "I made this for you, Mamá," she said, her voice shy but hopeful. 

Alma, much younger then, felt exhaustion weighing on her shoulders. But the moment she looked at her daughter, warmth filled her chest. She smiled, pressing a soft kiss to Julieta’s forehead before taking a bite. 

It was bland—no seasoning, no finesse—but Alma smiled brightly. "This is the most delicious arepa I’ve ever had," she told her, watching as Julieta’s face lit up with pride. "I feel like all my tiredness is gone just from eating it." 

A loud clatter interrupted them as Bruno stumbled into the kitchen, a bucket stuck on his head. "I smelled food!" he announced dramatically, yanking off the bucket and reaching for an arepa. He took a large bite, chewed, and then made a face. 

"It’s kinda bland." 

Julieta gasped in offense, her tiny hands balling into fists. "Mamá liked it!" 

Bruno shrugged, swallowing. "I bet Pepa will add sugar when she tastes it." 

Almost as if summoned, Pepa entered the kitchen, her curls bouncing, a small cloud forming over her head. She grabbed an arepa, bit into it, and quietly reached for the sugar jar, sprinkling a generous amount over the rest of her piece. 

Julieta gasped again, horror-struck. Bruno smirked in triumph. Alma laughed. 

The sound of their laughter echoed in Alma’s mind, warm and full of love. 

Then the scene shifted. 

It was their birthday—the day she found the miracle. The candle flickered brightly in her hands, and she looked at her children, their small faces glowing with hope and wonder. Her fear, the overwhelming grief of losing Pedro, momentarily faded. 

It was a gift. A miracle. A sign that Pedro was still watching over them. 

Years passed in flickering memories. Julieta in a white dress, eyes shining with love as she married Agustín. Pepa, nervous and excited, walking toward Félix with a storm of emotions swirling inside her. Bruno, the odd one out, still beside her, still her boy, even if others found him strange. 

The family grew. More children. More gifts. More reasons to celebrate. 

And then Mirabel. 

A little girl with the brightest smile, eyes full of trust and love. 

Alma had been so eager, so excited for her gift. She had convinced herself that whatever miracle Mirabel received would only strengthen their family. 

But the door never formed. 

And suddenly, it was as if Alma had been thrown back into that night Pedro died. The fear crept in, consuming her. 

Had the miracle reached its end? Was Pedro’s blessing fading? 

She barely remembered anything happy after that. 

Bruno left. 

She avoided looking at Mirabel too much because every time she did, she was reminded of her fears. 

Mirabel never even got her own room, stuck in the nursery long past the age any of her siblings or cousins had. It had seemed practical at the time—why give her a room if she had no gift to support the house?