He was trying to leave her.
After all they'd been through together, after he promised he would never go away.
Yet now he acted as if none of that mattered.
Imelda didn't care that he said he'd send money home. She didn't care that it was only for two months, as if the time limit made any difference. What did it matter how short he was going to be gone? He was still leaving. He tried to tell her that he was trying to make their life better, but Imelda saw through that excuse quickly. The lure of chasing a musical fantasy with his "Superhero" had gotten the better of him.
Imelda knew him too well to be swayed by by his lies. He might want to try and make things better for their family, but Imelda knew that music-- that Ernesto-- had taken up his thoughts, too.
What about her? How was she going to raise Coco and make money when he wasn't sending letters? What was she supposed to do while he was gone? Sure, her brothers could help her, but it wasn't right for her to ask them for help when they didn't deserve to be burdened with her problems.
Not to mention, she would miss him, his music, his deep, sharp laugh, the way he holds her in his arms when they lay down as she often returns his embrace, the way he always greets her by planting a kiss on her cheek, how she could never imagine how she appreciated her life before meeting him and being introduced to his quirky ways.
What about Coco? She would probably miss him more than Imelda. Who was going to play music for Coco at night? Imelda thought of how Coco always raced after him whenever he was about to go somewhere with Ernesto, her arms clinging to his legs because she can't quite reach his waist. How she squealed with delight when Héctor started playing his guitar, the two of them dancing exaggeratedly as Coco burst into a fit of giggles.
Now here he was, trying to act like he couldn't care less, trying to make their life better when it's fine the way it is. He wasn't even looking nervous like he first was when he delivered the news to her earlier. His eyes had a hardness that didn't belong. His posture was tensed, his shoulders squared as he stared her down. He'd never, ever had the ability to look threatening, or tough, really, especially not around her, but now he did, especially since he seemed to be challenging her.
Seeing him made Imelda's blood boil.
Before Imelda realized what she was doing, her hand was raised above her head. She barely realized that Héctor's eyes were beginning to fill with tears behind all of his defiance. Her hand raises higher and higher, and in one swift motion, her hand flies across his right cheek, her nails even digging into his skin a little and creating a small, already swelling bruise. He staggered back, crashing into the table behind him and knocked some of their family photos off of it.
He gaped at her with wide eyes. He was scared now.
And he should be.
But instead of aplogizing, of taking his words back like he should, he stood, telling her that he's going even without her approval. Then he picked up Coco, who'd been sleeping on the couch nearby, and carried her to her room.
Only after he disappeared behind Coco's bedroom door did Imelda realize what she'd done, and an icy cold dread seeped into her as she buried her face in her hnads when she dropped to the ground.