Gracie:
23GRACIE
Three Weeks Before the Wedding
As I walk through the familiar front door of the Morales house, the smell of frying tostones greets me like an embrace. It’s followed almost immediately by an actual embrace as Mrs. Morales bustles down the short flight of steps and opens her arms wide.
“Gracie, Gracie,” she says into my hair when I lean down to hug her. She plants a kiss on my cheek, and I feel the knots in my back melt. Holding me out by the shoulders to examine me, she says, “It’s been too long and you’re working too hard.”
“Guilty on both counts,” I say apologetically. “How have you been?”
“Too blessed to be stressed,” she answers with her usual mantra as she releases me and turns to Sofia. But this time, I can’t help noticing the slight weariness she says it with, and a pang goes through me for not making more of an effort to visit.
After Sofia’s mom has thoroughly examined both of us, we walk up the short flight of stairs and through the cozy living room where all our zombie movie marathons would secretly happen. When we get to the heart of the house—the kitchen—Abuela is there, stirring a large cast-iron pot I know contains her famous sancocho. She bangs the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot before turning to us with a wide smile. She hugs me, wine is poured, and sore backs have beenthoroughly discussed before I finally notice who’s missing from the kitchen. “Where’s Mr. Morales?” I ask.
Sofia’s brothers and sister come to Sunday dinner when they can, but her dad has always been the linchpin of the gathering. His wife is fond of complaining about his personality being too big for any room, but I’ve always found that his off-tune humming, inappropriate jokes, and endless anecdotes fill a part of my heart that’s always been too quiet. My own father never has anything to say to me.
Sofia, her mom, and Abuela exchange glances.
“Let’s sit,” Mrs. Morales says too brightly, leading us to the table. I try catching Sofia’s gaze, but she avoids me, grabbing a plate of steaming-hot tostones instead.
Trying not to panic, I blurt, “He’s okay, right? His angina isn’t acting up again?”
“No, no—nothing like that,” Mrs. Morales assures me, but Sofia is looking down at her hands instead of digging into her food, and if there were any signal thatthe end is nigh, it would be that. “But we did want to talk with you.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to stay calm. But Sofia bites her lip, and her chin is puckered in the way that always precedes tears.
Mrs. Morales takes a centering breath and reaches her hand across the table toward me. I grab it like someone’s just thrown me a rope down a cliff I’m dangling from.
“Héctor moved out. We’re separating, Gracie.”
“He… what?” I say stupidly. I heard her words and comprehend them, but registering them as fact is proving difficult. “I don’t understand.”
Her dark eyebrows press together as she squeezes my hand. “I know it’s a shock. But believe me when I tell you it was the right decision for both of us.”
I close my eyes and try to calm my racing heart as a million warm memories war with what she’s just told me. I don’t want to believe it. Mr. and Mrs. Morales have been my blueprint for a loving, supportive relationship for as long as I can remember. The glueholding my heart together feels like it’s dissolving, but as I look into Mrs. Morales’s tired, pained eyes, I can only imagine whatshemust be feeling. What Sofia and her whole family must be going through.
“I’m so sorry,” I say in a choked whisper. “What can I do to help?”
She gives my hand one last squeeze before letting go. “It’s enough that you’re here. We’ve had some time to adjust.”
My eyes find Sofia’s, and I know she hears my silent question:How long?But then I remember the studio potluck and how wan she looked. Her words return to me like a gut punch.“You don’t have time to help me, Gracie.”
All at once, breathing becomes difficult. Guilt is a fist around my throat for missing this. For being so wrapped up in my own troubles that I didn’t notice my best friend was going through something of this magnitude. I came here tonight selfishly seeking comfort after things went sideways with Jude, never questioning the stability of this foundation I’ve always relied on. But this whole time, it’s been splitting beneath my feet.
“But I thought you were so happy,” I say, eyes stinging as I turn back to Mrs. Morales. “I-I thought you loved each other.”
I hate that I’m asking her for an explanation, but I can’t stop the words from tumbling out of me. Nearly all my life, I’ve heard Mr. Morales retell their love story like the soundtrack to my own hopes and dreams. I’ve witnessed it myself in his over-the-top affection and the way they always seemed to know what the other was thinking. But Mrs. Morales’s face betrays the smallest wince at my words, and my heart sinks lower. “We do love each other. But sometimes,” she says softly, “love isn’t enough.”
Automatically, I shake my head, because this runs counter to everything I believe—everything that this family taught me when my own didn’t want me. That unconditional love might be difficult to find, but when it arrives, it can be strong enough to build a life on. “But it has to be enough,” I say weakly. “If love can’t hold two people together, then what on earth can?”
Sofia and her mother both lower their eyes, but Abuela’s voice rings through the sadness. “Growth.”
Our gazes swing to her, where she sits at the head of the table, looking directly at me.
“She’s right,” Mrs. Morales says quietly. She gives me, then Sofia, a tired smile. “They say your children are your greatest teachers, and as I’ve witnessed you all try on and outgrow relationships, I’ve learned a great deal about what’s possible. I’ve been figuring out whatIwant.” Her features pinch together as her voice begins to shake. “I began recognizing patterns in my marriage that were never okay and asked for change. But Héctor was never a flexible man. He didn’twantto grow with me.”
Sofia grabs her mother’s hand when a tear slips down her face. “It’s okay, Mami,” she says in a choked voice.
