Trigger Warning: difficult and traumatic labor and delivery, new borns in peril, internalized homophobia, and death.

Please don't push yourselves!

If any of these are triggers for you please email me at [email protected] and I will send you an edited version of this chapter to enjoy without compromising your mental health! 💗

Take care! 🫶🏻🤟🏻

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Who was he, and what did it mean to be a man? These questions had begun to plague Bruno as he found himself watching his sisters with envy as they grew and developed into the strong, independent, beautiful women he knew they would. More so after his argument with their mother.

They were lucky, he ruefully felt. They were not only free to love, each engaged to be wed, but more than that, they knew who they were. They were their mother's daughters after all, and with her to guide them into womanhood they couldn't go astray. But how could Bruno know who he was, or who he was meant to be if he didn't even know where he came from? A father's son, without a father, he was adrift in life.

This absence haunted him daily, more than it had during his care free adventures of youth. Back then, the chaotic whirl as the weeks, months, and years bled together kept him from truly realizing what he had been missing. Now though, in his self imposed isolation, ironically, all he had was time. Time to think, time to wish, and time to dream...

Who could he have been if he'd had his father to counsel him? Would he have still been so hated, and such a pariah? Could he have been stronger, and resisted his urges? Or, conversely, would have had the willpower to stand his ground for the sake of his own happiness rather than let it dwindle and die? Would his father be proud of who he had grown to be without him? Or, more likely Bruno felt, would he be ashamed, like his mother was, that his sacrifice was wasted on such an ungodly disgrace?

A disgrace.

Bruno was a disgrace of a man, one who wasn't worthy of seeing his sisters down the ailse to marry their beloveds, even as he yearned for the love he could not call his own.

Avoiding Hernando, since that day when the family table had been transformed into the judicial bench of a formal inquisition, was easier to arrange than expected, though not to practice.

Keeping to himself the Madrigal man brooded in the long shadows of his room, rarely coming out unless invited to by one of his sisters. Then, when Hernando would come at night to accompany Bruno through the darkest corners of his mind, knocking softly on the door that sperated them all Bruno had to do was hold the doorknob tightly as the silent tears fell, and his happiness died away.

Eventually, Hernando stopped coming, and the tangled forests of Bruno's scarred mind, were once more his to tread alone.

Sleepless, and riddled with self-hatred Bruno dwelt on all the might have been. His mind turned in ways it never had before, towards the past to seek out answers. With no one to go to Bruno passed the years a ghost, and shell of his former self. Until, by happenstance, his sister Julieta mentioned a name that bore weight for the Madrigal family, and community at large; Palmira, the Midwife, who had offered to apprentice her.

Sitting at the table toying with his food the man's mind raced. He knew of the woman, an escaped slave from Brazil she had refused to take a free surname upon gaining refuge and asylum in Columbia. As such, she remained Palmira Angola holding fast and proud to the name of her country lost over the vastness of the ocean because of the cruelty of her fellow man. It was she who had delivered the triplets with the help of their father the night they were born, and perhaps it was she whom Bruno could go to with his questions and doubts.

It would be another week of unrest, and torment before Bruno finally sought her out, slipping from the house one afternoon without notice.

She resided in the quiet, southern quarter of town just before the rolling fields, and farmland that kept the community sustained. Approaching her quaint little abode he found Palmira humming contently to herself as she hung clothes on the line to dry. Hands wringing together Bruno couldn't help but stare at the scarred stripes on her back just visible beneath the low hang of her blouse as he approached, nerves on end.

"Buena tarde." he called, clearing the rasp he heard in his voice as an afterthought.

"¡Buena tarde!" the woman squeaked as she turned. A broad smile quickly replaced the startled expression on her face as she gave a laugh, and pat her chest. "You gave me a fright!"

"Lo siento." Bruno smiled, ducking his head in apology. "I don't mean to bother you. My name is-"

"Bruno Madrigal." the beautiful black woman interjected, the corners of her eyes wrinkling fondly as she reached out a hand to cup the side of the man's face. "Twenty-three years ago, I helped your Mamá bring you into this world." she murmured in a maternal tone, her thumb, knotted by early arthritis stroking his cheek.

"What do you need mijo?" she asked turning back to her chores after a minute. "I trust you haven't come seeking my services."

"I came to ask about that, actually." Bruno rambled, his stomach uneasy. It felt wrong to go behind his mother's back like this, but she really hadn't left him much of a choice after years of relative silence about his father.

"Que? My services?" Palmira lifted a brow.

"No! Sorry um- I- no-no-no!" the man fumbled a deep blush rising in his cheeks. "I wanted to ask about what happened that night. The night I was born. Well, the night my sisters, and I were born." he elaborated in a nervous stammer.

"I see." the midwife nodded.

Palmira was quiet for a long time as she seemed to weigh her options, her indecision made the Madrigal man grow anxious. At last however, she tipped her chin towards the basket of wet clothes at her feet, saying, "Make yourself useful, mijo."

A quirk coming to his lips Bruno was quick to obey. Gathering linens he gave them a brief shake before hanging them on the line. Uneasy commentary about how lucky she was that it was a relatively dry day and that her clothes would be ready in no time swirled through Bruno's brain as he waited for her to say something, anything.

"It was already night when you and your sisters finally started to come." Palmira sighed, lost deep in troubling thought. "Your poor mamá, she had been laid up in bed since lunch the day before, she was so tiny, and the pains were terrible. Alma was already exhausted by the time I could see the thick black hair of your sister beginning to crown."

Bruno grimaced, these weren't exactly the details he had wanted to hear, but he was too afraid to say anything and scare Palmira away from her reminiscing.

"Your Papá didn't leave her though, not for minute, not like most men who scurry out of the room the moment the waters come, or the weeping begins." the midwife continued. "He was right on the bed with her, holding her shoulders and singing her praises throughout."

"He was?" Bruno asked his heart beating lighter knowing that the man had loved his children from the very beginning.

"Si, even when I had to help your sister with my little knife, to make room for her shoulders, he held your mamá through all her screaming and pain." Palmira shook out a dress her story pausing as she assessed the lingering brown hue of a stain that stretched across the front of it.

"It's a shame," she commented, sucking on her teeth. "I really love this dress, but my work is not always without it's flaws, though the rewards far outweigh them." she smiled to Bruno then, a gesture he returned, before she pinned it.

"Now that I think of it, it's almost ironic how you were born." the midwife mused.

"How so?"

Palmira made a vague motion with her hands in the air as if trying to capture a concept she couldn't quite put into words. "It just... fits. De todos modos, after I made my cut your sister Julieta tumbled free crying with lungs as strong as anything. I put her to your mother's breast immediately and she was contented as your parents kissed and coddled her."

"Pepa? Ay mijo! Your Papá had to hold your Mamá's legs so high to bring that girl into the world. Backwards, she came into this world backwards and obstinate, and her face-" Palmira gave a lark motioning with a claw like hand before her own face as she scrunched up her expression mimicking the unhappy glare Bruno pictured a baby Pepa would have worn. "She hated the entire experience!"

"And me?" Bruno asked trying to divide his focus equally between the task he had been given, and the story that was being woven to life. Truthfully, however, the laundry was almost completely forgotten at this point.

"You mijo?" Palmira smiled reaching to turn the man towards her, looking him over with warmth. "You are a miracle."

The word hit with all the bitterness and contempt he had associated with it over the years, his stomach turned, and a grimace formed on his face as the woman continued.

"You're mamá was strong, but so very tired. It was late at night by the time she was ready for you." Palmira shook her head, a sadness flooding through her gaze. "It's not unusual to lose the baby or the mother when she has worn so thin from labor, but when there's more than one baby? It's almost guaranteed. She just couldn't push anymore. I could have lost you both, so I had to reach in and pull you out myself. You were blue mijo, blue and not breathing. I tried all my tricks."

A shiver ran up Bruno's spine as he felt the chill touch of death lingering nearby.

"Your parents were beside themselves, but your Papá took you from the bed and rocked you, and pinched your little feet as I had, to try and make you cry." the midwife smiled with a deep sense of joy. "I had given up too early, experience had told me you were gone, so I had moved on to caring for your mother. But where I had experience, your father had faith, and you started to cry. You were a fighter mijo, and you pulled through."

Dazed the man stood blearily for a moment, humbled by the fact that he had been so close to dying before he'd even been given a chance to live. "He saved me twice." he murmured with a faint smile as grateful tears spilled from his eyes.

The woman nodded.

The two hung clothes quietly for a time, as the details surrounding Bruno's birth sunk in. Never before had he been so reverenced, or humbled to be alive, especially given that which his life consisted of. Eventually, he posed another question, the question he had come seeking answers to.

"Did you know my father before that night?" he asked.

"Si, I did."

"Could you tell me about him?" Bruno questioned, unable to keep the desire out of his tone.

Palmira's lips form a thin, thoughtful line, "Shouldn't you ask your mamá these questions?"

Bruno gave a noncommittal shrug, "She doesn't talk about him."

Palmira thought before she began in with a new tale, "Well, he was very handsome." she started before a fit of girlish giggles overwhelmed her. "Very, handsome." she reiterated. "He was a writer, a poet, and a songwrite. He would practice his guitar in the square and- you'll forgive for saying this, but all the young ladies were tripping over themselves for just a glance, or, if they were lucky, a kiss."

His heart racing Bruno felt a flush that was one part indignation and one part embarrassment at hearing of this secret time within his father's youth. He had never imagined the man with anyone but his mother, and it felt wrong to hear anyone speak of him otherwise, almost as if he'd been unfaithful to her.

"And he was a very good kisser." Palmira ducked her head away to hide her embarrassment.

"My father? You?" Bruno couldn't keep from blurting out in slack jawed shock.

"Oh yes, and not just me, but it was before he was your father, and before he was your mother's husband too." a taught, bitter expression crossed the woman's face then.

"After losing your home, your family, your language, and growing up as property as I had, when a man like Pedro sees you as a person, and calls you beautiful?" Palmira gave a wistful sigh. "I was a begger when I first came to Columbia with nothing but the clothes I had fled in. But your father never looked down on me, on anyone, really. He was kind, and good, that's what I remember most."

Warmed be these words Bruno found himself smiling.

"Pedro was however, very opinionated, sometimes it got him into trouble, but I think he liked the trouble." Palmira seemed lost in thought now, as she stared off into the distance. "God knows he caused enough of it."

"Señora?" Bruno asked after she had grown quiet and reminiscent.

"I'm sorry. They met during día de las velitas, the festival of little candles, your parents." the midwife elaborated. "After that, he only had eyes for Alma, and well, you know the rest."

This could have been enough, should have been enough. Bruno knew his father better now than he ever had before, or ever would have if he relied solely on his mother for the truth. He was grateful to hear these stories, he should have been satisfied, he should have thanked the woman, finished hanging her line, and left. He could have, he should have, and yet- Bruno needed more, his eyes glistening with the pained desire. He bit his lip, a tremor coming to his hands the Madrigal man fumbled with the pins.

"Mijo?" the preceptive woman whispered, the back of her fingers tracing the side of his face.

"Lo siento." he murmured.

"Come mijo, tell me what is on your mind."

"Señora, I-" Bruno let out a wavering breath. "I should leave."

"Mijo. Stay. Ask."

"I can't. I should leave. I'm sorry." the man said trying to duck away, but she caught him fast by the fabric of his ruana, her petite frame belying her considerable strength.

"Ask me Brunito." Palmira commanded.

"I wanted to know if you could tell me-" the man's voice broke, he swallowed hard and pressed on. "How my father died."

"Yes." the midwife nodded, her hand relinquishing it's grip, becoming soft, a gentle palm guiding him away from the line and towards her home. "But not here, let's go inside. I'll make us something to drink."

His leg bouncing with anxious anticipation Bruno felt like a caged songbird longing to take flight. He tried to focus his wheeling mind onto the radiating warmth of the cup in his hands, and the deep, living, earthy fragrance of the maté that filled his nose. But not even the comforting aroma and warmth of the beverage in hand could calm his fevered, and frantic lines of thought.

Unable to tear his gaze from Palmira he watched as she sat enveloped in warm firelight, nervously stoking the embers. The woman took many long, steadying breaths then, as she prepared to tell the man what had become of his father.

"Drink mijo, it will help." she commented absently as she stared at a small, insignificant crack in the foundation of her home.

Just as distracted as the midwife was herself, Bruno was slow to recognize what she had told him. Eventually, he lifted the vessel towards his mouth and sipped the verdant beverage from its little wooden bombilla. Draining the liquid from the leaves he handed the cup back.

"It always starts when the people have been struggling, and there are too many competing ideas on how to fix things." the woman mused, preparing the maté again. "Then they give themselves names like the Liberal party, the Conservative party, the National party, and when one is in control the others are resentful and will not even wait to see if the problems can be resolved by someone other than themselves." Palmira sighed.

"It was like that for a long time before the unrest reached our home." she continued. "Arrogance, control, and anger. That's what it always comes down to, arrogance, control, and so much anger, mijo."

Bruno listened in grave silence, and understanding as the woman gave pause to let a few lamenting tears escape.

"The tensions had been building in the streets, there was unrest everywhere, and the uneasy news that other towns in the area had been ransacked." Palmira explained. "Everything felt like a pot on the fire, just before boiling. That night, the night I was with your mother, not only did the water finally boil, the pot was turned over completely."

Palmira took the time to drink the warming beverage down again before steeping the leaves and returning the cup to the man who waited with held breath for her to continue.

"There was screaming and shouting both inside the casa and out while your mamá labored. Businesses were looted, the church was set ablaze, men were killed in streets." the woman whispered to her spot on the floor. "It took everything Pedro and I had in us to remain calm for your mamá, but most especially when we heard the windows breaking in the other room."

Bruno's heart began to race. Chilled to the bone he was forced to re-imagine an already frantic but loving scene, as one of scarcely pent mortal terror and the sheer ruthlessness and indifference of strangers.

"We knew we couldn't stay. Across the street the fires were growing, and smoke had started to drift in through the shudders." Palmira murmured. "We wanted to let your mamá rest, we want to give you and your sisters time to beathe and open you little lungs, but we could do niether. Your papá packed everything he thought your young family would need, and between the two of us, we braced your mother and we fled. The entire community, running for their lives."

"It was a horrendous ordeal." Palmira said, though, Bruno could tell from her tone alone that not even she could articulate just how bad it had really been. "We trailed behind the others. Alma's body was still wracked with pains and heaving. Blood and after-birth stained her dress and ran down her legs. We couldn't stop. She was bleeding but we still couldn't stop. Her cries mingled with the grief of all those others with nowhere left to call home, and we just couldn't stop." the woman reiterated, her voice wavering and tears flooding her gaze. "They would have killed us all if we had."

"Señora?" Bruno gently prodded, knowing the pain of recalled violence. He didn't want to wound the woman, but he just had to know.

"We had been foolish enough to believe, to hope, that they would let us leave." Palmira smiled bitterly, venom lacing her words. "They came for us on horses, with swords."

Bruno's heart plunged into the pit of his stomach at these words. He'd never known, not really, how any of it had happened, but this revelation was a harrowing and hellish one. Bruno was left to envision his father run down by horses or gutted and bleeding out into the soil. The Madrigal man shook his head to dislodge all of the so many broken bodies that lay strewn across the blood soaked fields of his mind as they surged into view.

"Mijo." the midwife leaned forward to put a hand on his arm.

"Please," Bruno rasped. "I need to know."

Palmira stared at the man for a long time, as if trying to make herself see the man where her eyes beheld a child, a child she had helped deliver into this world amid chaos, pain, and death.

"The people started running." the woman whispered, a hoarseness overtaking her voice. "Panic moved the crowds forward like a wave. The horsemen were coming. Children slipped free from their parents arms. They were ran past and abandoned by some, scooped up and carried away by others. Your mother was frantic. Friends and strangers were reaching for the three of you. They were only trying to help, to save you, but your mamá wouldn't have it, wouldn't risk losing any of you. She clutched you close to her breast and fled as quickly as she could."

"The elderly, the infirmed, your mother, the three of you, me, we would have been cut down in an instant, unable to keep pace with the rest." Palmira cleared her throat and turned away from Bruno, staring hard into the fire.

"Pedro knew this." she stated evenly. "He was a poet, a songwrite, an opinionated man, but a man of peace. He approached the riders with his hands raised, and, that was how he died. Pleading for the lives of his wife and children. Unarmed, and begging for mercy."

His heart racing, head light Bruno clenched his fists against the fabric of his pants. Voice failing he croaked, "How?"

"Mijo, no."

"How did they do it? How did they kill my father? I-I need to know. I have to know!" Bruno shouted quickly growing overwhelmed by everything he had learned as he shook all over.

"They cut him down." Palmira sobbed, her eyes closed against the memory. "But it wasn't quick. Your mamá was covered in his blood, and watched as they killed him. That was when the candle, the miracle... Oh mijo..." the crying midwife stopped and pulled Bruno from his seat. He tumbled and scrambled forward until he had all but collapsed, head in the woman's lap. There he wailed.

Gripping her skirts the man screamed out his pain and terror as the sole image he knew of his father, smiling and at peace, collided with this revelation, and all the terrible massacres of his mind's eye. He felt the machetes cleave through his flesh and shatter his bone. He felt the bullets tear through him. He felt the touch of fire blacken his skin. But for all that pain and misery he felt the blades hilt in his hand, the kick of the rifle as it recoiled, the roar of the blaze igniting before him. He felt victorious, he felt vindicated, he felt pleasure at seeing the enemy die by his hand.

The men who'd killed his father must have felt the same. They must have smiled. They must have laughed. They must have thought cutting down an unarmed, and defenseless man a victory for their cause. Hatred bloomed in Bruno's chest as he raved, and screamed, and beat the woman in his grief. Palmira held Bruno to her, and allowed him his sorrows as he truly grieved his father's loss for the first time in his life.

It was dark before Bruno had finally gathered himself together enough to take his leave, against Palmira's advice. He wandered, aimlessly for a time looking at the town in which he had grown, a town that would not have existed, save for his father's selflessness. One man's life for all of this? He was sure to most it seemed a fair trade, but not to Bruno, not now, not knowing what he knew and who he had lost.

He'd lost a father, a mentor, a confidant, and a friend, while the world lost an artist, a writer, a poet, and a man of peace in a world with too few of those left.

Eventually Bruno found himself standing outside of Hernando's home, staring at the dark space that was the room beyond his bedroom window. His eyes swam with sorrow, and longing, and loss. He knew who he was now. He was the son of a hero. But he wasn't a hero himself. He was weak. He was a disgrace. He was broken, and he was wrong.

But for all his wrongness Bruno needed Hernando now, more than ever. He hated himself for that. But, in the same train of thought Bruno argued that he needed him as a friend, and nothing more. It was a lie that was growing to become familiar.

Bruno stood outside for what must have been hours warring with himself before his weakness got the better of him and he, weeping, clamored in through the window.

It had been some time since he'd made the climb, Bruno was out of practice, and the vines had reclaimed their territory near the window ledge. He lost his footing, and fell, roughly onto the bed and the man who slept upon it. Hernando came up with a gasp, fighting an unknown assailant. Bruno threw himself at him, wrapping his arms tightly about the other man's willowy frame he hugged him as he cried.

"Bruno?" Hernando whispered harshly, his heart thundering against Bruno's ear as displaced rats began to race around the area.

Hernando was still shaking, but quick to collect himself, realizing that this meant Bruno was in need of him. Holding him tight the blind man stroked a hand through his hair and whispered, "Softly now, softly, or my Mamá will hear you."

There was no bitterness, no judgment, no hatred, no abandonment in Hernando's voice, only a gentle, empathetic love, a love Bruno had scorned for the acceptance of his mother, a mother who he now betrayed just by being here.

Life was far too cruel.

"I'm here." Hernando whispered pulling Bruno to lay beside him. "Softly now. I'm here, love. I have you. I'm here..."