Imelda died surrounded by family. She was diagnosed with late-stage cancer. The doctors gave her three months. She made it six. She had no time for dying. There was too much to do. She had to make sure her business and her family would survive without her. She knew Coco had no interest in the shoemaking business, but luckily her brothers did. Oscar and Filipe agreed to take on the burden Coco never wanted.

Coco married a man who became an excellent shoemaker. It was one of Imelda's conditions when he asked for her blessing. She knew that Coco met him on one of her secret dancing excursions and told him that if he wanted to marry Coco, he had to become part of the family. This meant he had to respect the music ban and join the family business. He told her, for Coco, he would do anything, and he stayed true to her word. He took to shoemaking with gusto and became a specialist in creating wingtips. This satisfied Imelda, though she imagined Coco would have married him whether she approved or not.

Coco was denied her first love of music, but was content to act as a constant, loving guardian over the little ones. She positively glowed as a mother and later a grandmother. She was gentle and warm, and even encouraged a bit of mischief when the mood suited her. But Coco learned a lot from Imelda and was no pushover. Strong, stubborn blood ran through the Rivera line, which meant Coco had to settle many fights between her daughters. Elena and Victoria were like fire and ice. Elena would get into a flaming passion about something and Victoria would coldly rebuff her concerns. It was Coco would knock them to their senses and remind them they were sisters. Imelda watched with a knowing smirk as her rebellious daughter became the authority. "Ay Mama, I sound like you," she'd say every time after dealing out a scolding.

Imelda would simply laugh and reply, "Now you know why."

Now, as she laid in bed, her last moments upon her, she wasn't afraid. Her family surrounded her. Her brothers stood on one side while Coco sat on the other. Julio and his sister, Rosita, stood behind Coco, proving that she'd still have support after Imelda passed. Imelda looked at her granddaughters at the end of the bed. She chuckled as she thought about how, not long ago, the sisters were small and would nudge each other for elbow room at the dinner table. "Are you alright, Mama?" Coco asked, stroking her hand.

"Yes, m'ija. I'm alright."

"Mama, I…" Coco's voice caught in her throat. In her eyes, Imelda could see everything. Her love, her respect and admiration, her regret for every stupid fight that no longer mattered... "Mama…" Coco tired again. "There's so much I never told you. So much I was too stubborn to say." The tears came and choked the words from her again.

Imelda shook her head and smiled up at her daughter. "It's alright, Coco. You don't have to say anything. I know."

"I love you, Mama," Coco managed through the tears.

"I love you too, Coco."

Coco smiled. She closed her eyes, stroked her mother's hand, and hummed a familiar tune. The rest of the family was stunned into silence, but for once, Imelda didn't protest. She kept her eyes on her daughter's face as they slowly began to close. "Coco," she whispered as she drew her last breath. "That's beautiful."

[-]

Imelda could still hear the tune as she opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry and she had to blink a few times to bring everything into focus. She found herself lying in a hospital-like bed. At the end of the bed sat a skeleton man playing a guitar. For some reason, she wasn't afraid. He had a familiar, comforting presence about him. It was his smile, she thought. He wore a peaceful smile that had the power to calm storms. He looked as if all was right with the world so long as he held a guitar in his hands. On that guitar, he played the same song Coco hummed to her.

A skeleton woman passed by the bed and paused when she heard the music. "That's so sweet," she said, admiring the skillful way his fingers manipulated the guitar strings.

"Gracias," the man replied. That voice. No… after all this time?

"It's a lovely cover."

He suddenly stopped. His eyes flung open and he gripped the fretboard to stop the strings. The woman walked away and he sighed and shook his head as he began to play again. "Ah, you're awake," he said, apparently just noticing her eyes had opened. "Welcome, mi amore."

Him. It was him.

"I've been waiting so long for you."

He's been- He's been waiting? He's been waiting?! How dare he? After everything he put her through. How could even presume to know what waiting felt like? Fury catapulted Imelda out of bed. She ripped the guitar out of his hands and smashed it repeatedly against the wall.

"Imelda, please," he stammered, still reeling from the shock. "I don't understand."

"Ma'am," another woman came rushing up to them and stepped between Hector and Imelda. "Ma'am, my name is Josefina. I am a counselor with the Department of Family Reunions. I realize that the transition can be shocking and you may not recognize him, but our records indicate that this is your husband." The counselor took Hector by the shoulders and presented him to Imelda. Hector gave her a sheepish grin and a small wave.

Imelda scowled and jabbed what was left of the fretboard at Hector like a sword. "That is the husband who left me 50 years ago."

Gasps erupted from the surrounding beds and the counselor stepped away from Hector. A woman at an administrative desk turned off her telenovela and turned to watch them. He looked around at all the judgmental eyes on him and stammered out, "I… I didn't think you'd still be angry about that."

Imelda slapped him in the face with the end of the fretboard and watched his head spin all the way around. "Of course you didn't. Just like didn't think about me or Coco when you went off with Ernesto. Just like you didn't think about us when you never came back. You're selfish. Just like always."

"Imelda, when I didn't come back…" He paused. His face fell to something close to bitterness. She'd never seen that expression before, not on his face. "Ernesto didn't tell you, did he?"

"Ernesto told me everything I needed to hear." She shot her glare over to the counselor and jabbed the end of the fretboard in her direction. "You! Get this man out of my sight. I don't want him here."

"It's probably best if you go," the counselor said, nudging Hector away.

Hector ignored the counselor and stepped forward, pleading with Imelda now. "Imelda please, just let me explain."

"No, I don't want to hear another word from you. I want nothing to do with you," she said, shaking the broken fretboard threateningly at him. When he didn't make a move, she threw it at him. "Get out! Get out!"

"Sir, I don't want to have to call security…" the counselor warned.

The people in surrounding bed all murmured and watched to see what might happen next. "Alright, I'll go," Hector said, finally turning toward the door. He took a few steps and looked over his shoulder. "Imelda..."

"Leave," she growled in a voice that chased so many away.

He didn't flinch. He didn't even look frightened, only sad. "I love you," he uttered and something tugged at the corner of his lips. "Haven't got to say that in a while."

He turned and walked away. Imelda sat down on her bed and tried to calm herself. She didn't have a heart to pound in her chest anymore, but she felt it anyway. The counselor began apologizing for the confusion, but Imelda didn't listen. She only watched as the skeleton who she once called her husband shambled out the door.

She looked at her hands and noted how white they looked compared to his yellowed bones. She also could have sworn she saw duct tape holding one of his arms together. Despite this, despite his haggard appearance, something seemed off about him. He didn't look quite the way she'd imagined he would. (Not that she spent too much time thinking about that pendejo. He'd just pop into her head from time to time and she'd wonder how he looked as an old man. It was natural curiosity. That was all). His voice didn't turn rougher with age. He didn't have any grays in his hair. He kept his goatee exactly the way she remembered it. That was the problem. It'd been 50 years. He shouldn't look the way she remembered him. And yet, he did. He just didn't look all that…old.