AN: HELLO MY LOVELIES! :D THIS AUTHORS NOTE IS GOING TO BE SHORT. I JUST WANT TO THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVELY SUPPORT YOU HAVE SHOWN! IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME!

ALSO… IF YOU DON'T MIND A SHAMELESS PLUG… I HAVE ANOTHER COCO STORY UP, A MODERN AU TYPE OF STORY. IT'S CALLED "MY PROUD CORAZÓN" AND I HOPE YOU'LL CHECK IT OUT IF YOU WANT :D

OKAY ENOUGH SHAMELESS PLUGGING TIME ON WITH THE NEXT CHAPTER.

AS USUAL THE CHAPTER TITLE IS INSPIRED FROM A SONG FROM A BROADWAY MUSICAL.

CAN YOU GUESS THE MUSICAL?

AS ALWAYS PLEASE ENJOY AND PRETTY PLEASE REIVEW! :D I PROMISE I DON'T BITE.

DISCLAIMER: YOU KNOW THE DRILL I SAY I DON'T OWN COCO OR ANYTHING RELAATED TO IT BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH AND THEN I MAKE A JOKE ABOUT MEN IN BLACK COMING TO GET ME WELL NO MORE! I HAM PAST ALL THAT NONSENSE *PEERS OVER AND SEES MEN IN BLACK COMING FOR HER* TELL MY MAMA I LOVE HER *RUNS TOWRDS THEM WITH LOUD WAR SHRIEK*

~CHAPTER SIX~

SO BIG AND SO SMALL

February 1922

Darkness had settled over the Santa Cecilia. Imelda sat alone in her kitchen, her soft face lit by the flickering glow of a candle. Her round eyes were heavy and shrouded with dark rings. Her hair, which was normally twisted up with great skill and care fell down her shoulders and back. The beautiful braids made her ever constant headache unbearable. By this point she was so weak, so drained of life that she would fall into blissful rest minutes after Coco had slipped into slumber.

That cool winter night was different.

Coco had long since drifted into her dreams, wrapped safely in her favorite blanket. Everything in the hacienda was still and tranquil sans for a dancing flame and Imelda's sprinting thoughts. Her head was so heavy she didn't bother to hold it up. She rested it gingerly on the table, her crossed arms acting a pillow. Her eyes stared at the candle, watching as each little drop of wax slide down to the wood below. She blinked and sucked in a deep breath through her nose.

Oh how she wanted to be in bed. Every inch of her body ached with exhaustion. She knew if she tried to stand there was a chance her slim legs would be so weak, they wouldn't be able to hold her. It didn't matter how much weight had dropped off her small frame. She felt so fragile and so light. So, she stayed at her table, resting her head on her arms and fighting to keep her burdensome eyes open. It didn't matter how drained her frail body was, her mind was far to awake and alert for Imelda to even consider going to rest.

No matter how hard she tried her thoughts kept returning to the sorry state her life had fallen into. Imelda let out a groan of exhaustion and ran her fingers through her thick dark brunette mane. It was painful, but Imelda knew she had no choice but to face the reality that she had been desperately ignoring.

Because her reality had become far too cold, distant and overwhelming to accept.

Imelda never wanted Hector to leave. She knew deep within her gut his departure would only bring a black cloud of misery and struggle. Yet she let him go. She let go with beautiful promises of greater stability, and for six months his he fulfilled those pledges. At least once a month he would send a portion of his earnings-far more than she had expected. It was enough to keep a roof over her daughter's head, food in her stomach and clothes on her back. Along with the odd jobs Imelda would procure the worry of keeping her life stable had been lifted from her shoulders. Her only worries were making sure her little angel and creating a warm environment for her to thrive. And of course, waiting for any word or sign that Hector would be returning.

What she received was excuse after hallow excuse of why the tour etched longer and longer, with even hallower promises of his return. An ugly seed of doubt was planted and grew with each passing month he was gone. Despite this doubt Imelda kept her letters as frank but loving as ever, shying away from any fears that there may be no homecoming. She buried that seed as deeply as she could when she would see the money and more importantly, when she would see the beam on her Coco's face when her Papa sent her another poem.

Then with the quiver of the breeze everything stopped. There were no more letters, no more beautiful poems and declarations of love and most terrifying no more money. There was nothing.

Complete and utter silence.

First there was confusion. Why had it taken so long for his next letter to arrive? Why had he not even sent a telegram telling there where he was, letting her know he was at least breathing. For the first few weeks Imelda found herself staring at the door, her chest growing tight and her heart cracking. What she had been expecting, and what she had been waiting for she didn't know. Maybe a part of her hoped Hector would waltz through that door with his large smile and melt all her confusion. Maybe a part of her-a dark part of her-prayed there would be a knock on the door with a somber uniformed clad man bringing the unthinkable.

At least she would have answers.

At least she would have something resembling and explanation for Coco. Though only three Coco was all too aware something was wrong. She had always made it habit to ask her mama when papa was coming home. Her round face and eyes would sink with disappointment until a new poem or letter was delivered to her. They kept her joy soaring and kept her from standing at the window, waiting for any sign of her Papa. With the letters gone there was nothing to keep her soaring, to keeping her from staring forlornly at the door or window. There was nothing to keep her questioning where her father was, why he wasn't home.

It was torture for Imelda to watch her daughter. She found herself filled with a powerful mixture of utter sadness and overwhelming desire to rip out Hector's throat. Each day of silence grew longer and longer, but Imelda persisted. She would greet her daughter with the warmest of smiles, would do anything within her power to distract her young mind. She would hold her when the pain of missing her father became too great and tears spilled down her cheeks. She did it without question and ignored her own turmoil.

However, that early February day had brought Imelda to her breaking point. Everything around her seemed to be tumbling and crumbling. There was not enough food. Coco's shoes were so worn the sole was tattered and hanging on by a single thread. What money she had seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving her scared, starving and exhausted. None of this could compare to what Coco had asked her. As Imelda was tucking her into bed, Coco gazed up at her with round, glistening eyes. Her little hands gripped the blanket, her lips turned in a woeful frown.

"Mama does Papa not love me? Is that why there are no letters?" She asked, her voice soft and thin. Imelda felt her heart snap in two. Her chest swelled with a dangerous fire that threatened to sear her. Somehow, she had no idea how, Imelda managed to forget her snapped heart and lull her child to rest. Imelda held her close to her chest and rocked her little body back and forth. She kissed the top of her head and began to stroke her thick hair.

"Oh mija…. Do you remember the last letter he sent you?" Coco nodded and sniffled.

"'Dear Coco, I love you with all my heart.'" She replied, her voice smoother and tinged with hope.

"There's your answer mi alma" Imelda kissed the top of her head and held her close to her chest. This made it hard for Coco to see the twisted look of furry on her face. No matter how her furry raged, no matter how desperately she wanted to find Hector and rip off his cojones, Imelda would shield her angel from it all. She could never see how angry her mama was, or how a fog of fear and sadness always followed her.

After all, Coco was a child. There was no need to add to the incredulity she already felt.

Once Coco had fallen into her dreams the fire in Imelda's chest evaporated. She was left with nothing but a battered, weary body and a cracked heart.

There was only one possible glimmer of hope.

Resting on the table was a pale envelope with neat, meticulous penmanship. It had come with the golden afternoon sun and sent Imelda's heart sprinting. From the moment she laid eyes on it, Imelda knew it wasn't from her Hector. The hand writing was far to neat compared to her husbands' notorious scrawl. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but it only took a moment for Imelda to discover who it was from. In the top left-hand corner of the letter was the same of its sender;

Ernesto de la Cruz.

After hours and hours of waiting Imelda finally had the quiet and privacy she needed to read the letter. She shifted her head and turned her weary gaze to the letter. It sat peacefully and unassuming, taking on a golden hue in the dim candle light. Imelda knew it was far from unassuming. As she stared at it, trying to grab any ounce of courage, her stomach fluttered with nervous butterflies. Innumerable questions swarmed in her head, causing her stomach to twist.

Why had Ernesto sent her letter?

What had compelled Ernesto to send her a letter? Did that mean something terrible had happened to Hector? Imelda felt her throat cease at the thought. Every inch of her body wanted to reject the notion. Imelda knew it was foolish, wishful thinking. A little voice crept through those thoughts, reminding her there was no other reason for Ernesto to try and contact her. She could only hope whatever it was, Hector's soul had not left.

"Please God let him be a live… please let him be alive." Imelda blinked a stray tear away as she said her silent prayer. She pressed her hands on the rough table and slowly pushed herself up. Her eyes never left the envelope. Her heart began to race, and her stomach flipped as she reached for the letter. She stared at the envelope one last time, taking a moment to collect her thoughts and gather one last ounce of courage. With a tentative hand she opened the envelope and unfolded folded the letter.

Dear Imelda,

I know you are probably very surprised to be receiving a letter from me. However, I am afraid I am writing you because I have been left with no other choice.

I don't know how to say this so I will be blunt. Hector is gone. I do not mean he is dead. The last I saw him he was very much alive. He has simply vanished. The last time I saw him was in December. We were in Mexico City and some pretty little gringa of all things began flirting with him. He went off with her and I haven't seen him since.

I am so sorry Imelda. I am sorry it has taken me this long to tell you what happened, but I have been desperately trying to find him for you. I don't know where he could have gone or who is with… but I can only assume he is with that gringa.

Above all I am so sorry Hector has done this to you and Coco. No one, especially me, would ever expect Hector to do such a thing. I heard him mention he loved not being 'Hector the husband' or 'Hector the father', but I thought he was happy about not being woken up in the middle of the night. I guess he missed his freedom and ran as soon as he found it.

I'm sure Hector has stopped sending letters, which means he has stopped sending you money. I know you're too proud to accept this, but I put some money in the envelope. Hopefully it will be enough to help until you can make other arrangements.

Once again I am so sorry Imelda. I will let you if I find him. Please do not hesitate to write if you need anything.

Ernesto.

"What the devil is this?" Imelda whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. She rolled her eyes and scoffed, ready to crumble the letter and write one of her own. How dare that pendejo send such bold face lies? Imelda was highly aware they were never on the best of terms. She knew he loathed her presence. He never said as much, yet Imelda knew he saw her and especially Coco as nothing but a wrench in their grand plans. It would be no great surprise if Ernesto had kept Hector's letters from reaching her, if he had sent a letter of his own to try a dismantle the life Imelda and Hector had lovingly crafted. She was ready to believe this without a second thought. She was ready to pour every scathing thought racing in her head in her own letter. She was ready to begin her task when a little switch went off in her head.

Two months. Hector had not sent a single word in two long, isolating months. Letters never came fast, but he had never gone this long without even the shortest of letters. Even more worrying than the lack of letters was the lack of funds that kept her, and Coco sustained. Imelda had poured over her funds and found with horror she was quite literally down to her last pesos. Her stomach lurched. The pieces of an aggravating puzzle slowly began to come together. She could see dozens of eyes gawking at her, darting away the instant they were caught. Soft and cruel whispers buzzed in her head. The voices were all different, but they muttered the same various phrases;

"That poor woman."

"I heard he ran off… he's probably with another woman."

"It's not surprising he left. I don't blame him, having to live with a woman like that would drive anyone mad."

How everyone else knew of this new development baffled Imelda. It would never cease to amaze her how rapidly gossip would spread. It was no different than a deadly virus, and it was one Imelda did everything in her power to avoid. When she caught those curious, scrutinizing stares or heard their buzzing voices she would retreat into her fortress of steal. It was just mindless gossip that she wouldn't waste a second on.

At least… that was what Imelda had believed. In the beginning it had been easy to ignore the hissing gossip. That night they grew louder and heavier with certainty, becoming impossible to snub.

All of this led to one horrible, deafening realization.

Something was terribly… terribly wrong.

Every muscle froze and a chill seeped deep into her bones. Her stomach churned and churned. Her chest constricted as if all the air was being squeezed from her. Her heart began to race faster and faster until it felt as if it would burst from her chest.

"No es la verdad. No es la verdad. Es solo una pesadilla. Es solo una pesadilla." Imelda silently repeated this chant over and over again. Her eyes darted to the top of the letter and read it once more. The words seemed strange and fantastical, as if they were about some other woman's life instead of her own. Her Hector would never do such a thing. Hector was the man who never missed a chance to hold her close. Hector was the man who smiled at her with light in his eyes and would spend every waking hour singing to her if he could. Hector was not the kind of man who would disappear with the wind. Imelda knew her husband, and she knew within her gut he would never abandon her or their child. Her darted to the top of the paper one last time, shaking her head in disbelief. Despite going back to read the letter for a third time Imelda did not want to believe the letter was for her. She did not, she could not believe Hector would so easily throw away the life they had created.

In spite of her conviction Imelda's lung filled with panic and screamed for air. Her stomach painfully as the pieces of her heart collapsed deep in her gut. Her blood began to simmer, making her burn in spite of the relatively cool air surrounding her. The soft whisper in her head morphed into a giant, lions roar. That booming voice screamed the same phrase over and over again.

"HE'S NEVER COMING HOME!"

"HE'S NEVER COMING HOME!"

"HE'S NEVER COMING HOME!"

"HE NEVER COM"

Before that sentence finished Imelda sprang out of the chair. It squealed and scrapped against the floor, breaking the thick silence in the hacienda. She marched towards her room, lost in her own spiraling state. Her breathes came out in rapid succession and she shook from head to toe. She kept moving until she crashed into the corner of her night stand. The top draw popped open and a dark object on top of it tumbled forward. A sharp pain in her pelvis jolted Imelda back to her senses, making her stumble back. Her hand clutched her pelvis as she panted, struggling to fill her chest with air. Her vision focused on a photo that had toppled over. She stepped forward and lifted it.

Imelda knew that picture all too well. It a photo of her with Hector and Coco. She saw herself sitting like a stern statue on a chair, wearing her favorite dress and looking squarely on the camera. Coco was on her lap, her head titled in confusion at the strange object before her. And Hector… Hector was standing next to them clad in a charro suit with his hand resting on the chair. He lips were curled in a soft, content and proud smile.

Whatever think thread had been holding Imelda together snapped. Her nostrils began to flare like an angry bull, her chest heaving as she let out raspy breath after raspy breath. She gripped the frame and in one swift motion she the photo out of his frame. Once the picture was in her hands, she gripped the corner by Hector's hair and pulled. The room was filled with a sickening ripping sound as Hector's head and face was detached from his long, gangly body. Imelda watched as it dropped into the open top door, her breathing as wild and as her eyes. She let go of the rest of the photo and rushed out of the room she had once shared with that disgusting bastardo. In fact, she couldn't stay in that house one more second. The air inside felt so think she felt as if she couldn't breathe. Her skin was boiling, and her face seemed to be on fire.

She had to get out. She needed air.

Imelda swung open the door and ran into cool air. Her legs finally gave out and she collapsed to stone ground before her. Her erratic breathing refused to cease, but at the very least the refreshing night air was cooling off her searing skin. Still trembling she pulled her legs close to her body, hugged them with all her might and buried her face into her knees.

All too quickly Imelda felt the familiar sensation of tears building in the back of her eyes. She sucked in a deep breath and drug her nails into the soft folds of her dress. Her head shook as she swallowed those tears. With her eyes now dry and her insides numb, Imelda lifted her head from her lap. She leaned against her cold, hard home and turned her gaze to the sky.

For years to come Imelda would remember that midnight sky. It was as black as ink. A full moon hung square on the sky, shining its white light on the world below. A sea of stars glittered and danced around the moon. They stretched for miles and miles, highlighting how grand the world truly was.

Imelda hugged her knees closer as she continued to stare in the speckled vastness above her. A wave of cold numbness crashed over her as she continued to gaze at the twinkling stars. It had been so long since she had looked at the sky and felt so minuscule. When she had been a smaller girl, Imelda would occasionally find herself gawking at the black void of the night sky. She would marvel at the enormity above her, in complete awe of how massive the world was. As she grew the world seemed to shrink. The buildings no longer towered like the tallest mountains. Grown men and women no longer hulked and boomed like giants. The endless sky no longer filled her with awe.

As she gazed at the moon and stars, Imelda Rivera had never felt so small in her short twenty-two years of life. The home she had worked so tirelessly to create felt colossal and remote. She might as well have been pressing her back against a soaring, impregnable mountain. The rocky, cool court yard and town surrounding her home turned into an immense, wild terrain she didn't dare venture into. Imelda pressed further against her mountain, her eyes large and round. She slowly lowered her head and stared at her court yard. The seconds ticked and ticked away, yet she remined still. Her gaze remained forward, staring at nothing by blackness. The wheels in her head were churning and churning. Her numbness evaporated and a frigid hollowness filled the empty spaces.

Imelda had no inkling of whether the specifics of Ernesto's letter were true. She couldn't conjure an imagine of a pretty little gringa batting her eyes and luring Hector away. The very idea made her squirm and want to burst out of her own skin. Even so, despite her annoyance with him, Imelda had no reason to doubt Ernesto. Maybe she had been too harsh and too cold. Maybe she had made him feel trapped.

Maybe… just maybe… she had finally pushed him away. For years and year Imelda had been told the fire inside of her would burn to hot. And one day when that flame burned to bright it would push away those she cared for. Imelda never wanted to believe them, despite the number of striking eyes and laughable smolders she rejected. She may have been made of flames, but she knew how to control that fire. Even if she had her moments where it raged like a storm, she always knew there was one person who would be unphased by her moods… maybe even charmed.

At least so she thought.

Imelda gripped the folds of her skirt, her almond eyes altering to dark slits. Her thundering heart slowed to a calm, steady rhythm. Her wondering, melancholy focused into a narrow stream of determination.

As she sat, swathed in darkness and righteous fortitude, there were five simple facts glaring her straight into her chocolate orbs.

Fact number one: Hector may or may not have been lured away by some pretty little gringa… though this thought gave her a little twinge of doubt. Whether the mysterious American was true or not Hector had vanished with the wind for one reason or another.

Fact number two: If he had ran off in the early days of December and ceased all contact, she would never his face again.

Fact number three: She didn't want to see him again if he did walk through the door.

Fact number three: She was on her own.

Fact number five: She had to be strong for her daughter. She had to protect her daughter.

And Imelda knew exactly how she would protect her Coco.

The first answer was sitting on her very feet. She had already been tinkering and learning how to make shoes on her own for months and found she had a talent for it. More importantly there wasn't a living soul in town who didn't need a pair of shoes, including her Coco. Her solitary pair of boots were falling apart at the seams. The sole had become so worn and tattered it separated from the rest of the faded boots. Imelda could only imagine having enough money to give Coco the new pair of shoes she so desperately needed. Maybe… just maybe neither her or Coco would have to worry about old, broken shoes ever again.

There was only one other shoe maker in town. He was one of the rare souls who had grown into a wrinkled old age. He was never known for being the kindest or gentlest of souls, but he was a man who appreciated dedication and hard work. The next steps to take were as clear as the ebony sky above. As soon as the sun rose and she had fed her daughter, she would march to his home with her daughter and attempts at boots in hand. She would not leave until he agreed to teach her.

The second answer came far more subtlety. It fluttered like a soft, melancholy tune. The world may have suddenly become far too big for her once more, but it would never be for Coco. She would do everything in her power to keep Coco's world as small and safe as possible. She may have felt as small as a speck of sand but she swore to the heavens she would never let her little girl experience such an awful sensation. That meant buckling down and perfecting the craft of making shoes… but it also meant giving up something that had once brought her such joy;

Music. Imelda's mouth burned with a bitter taste. In deepest heart of hearts she loathed the idea of letting go of music and the brightness it had once brought. Music was what brought her to Hector… yet it was what ultimately took him away. Something that was meant to bring beauty and elation had turned her life upside down and torn it apart. As strange as it sounded, on that cool winters night the very idea music morphed into something far blacker and more sinister. From that moment on it represented nothing but pain, loss and foolish dreams. Imelda vowed she would shield Coco not only from the anguish music brought, but from the man who had once filled their world with song.

At long last the great, sprawling world around Imelda shrunk and turned certain once more. Three new truths appeared before her.

Hector Rivera was forever more dead to her and her family.

Music had torn her family apart.

Shoes would pull her family back together.

Unbeknownst to Imelda, Coco had been startled by the crash coming from her parents' room. She could hear her Mama's feet thundering as she blustered through the house and out of the hacienda. A door slammed, causing Coco to pull her blanket up to her chin and curl into herself. She laid perfectly still in her little bed, blinking in the dark as her weary thoughts became jumbled with fear and confusion.

"Why was Mama so mad?" She asked herself, her eyes growing wide with fear. No child ever likes to see their parent upset, especially when they couldn't even begin to understand why their parent was acting in such a strange manner.

Coco, however, had an inkling of what had caused her Mama to fly into such a rage.

"Is it because of Papa?"

Being only three years old Coco couldn't even begin to grasp the pieces of puzzles in front of her. All her young mind could understand was her Mama was upset… and her Papa had stopped sending letters. She wrapped the blanket tightly around her small frame, pieces of her dark fair falling into her mouth. Her pudgy face scrunched in agitation, her tired thoughts beginning to wake.

Young as she was, Coco was all too aware something was amiss. Children were far more aware of the world around them than adults ever gave them credit for. They may not be able to grasp the finer details or connect the dots, but they were more than capable of understanding when something was wrong. Coco was no exception. Try as hard as she might, Imelda could not completely guard Coco from the drastic turn their lives were about to take. She noticed the little details Imelda appeared completely oblivious to. She noticed how her Mama sang less and less with each passing day. She would catch her staring at the front door, waiting for something or someone that never came. She was all too aware of how little food they had. Her stomach ached with the thought of the nourishment she lacked.

Most importantly of all though, Coco was all too painfully aware her Papa had stopped sending letters.

She had become used to having to wait seemingly endless periods of time for his latest letter or poem. She had become used to the absence of his warm arms, his familiar smell and loving eyes. If nothing else she could pretend he was with her as she sang their special song, beaming as he held her close and swayed her to sleep. As bold and colorful as her imagination was though it would never compare to having her Papa with her. At least she still had his words. Though they may have taken longer than she preferred, her Papa would send letter after letter just for her. Some of them were little poems with little drawings in the margins or corners. Some of them were simple letters regaling her with his adventures. It was his last letter though that stuck in the grooves of her youthful mind. It was one of the shortest letters he had sent and lacked the customary doodles she had become accustomed to. Yet in the months that followed she memorized those words and repeated them as often as her daily prayers;

Dear Coco,

I love you with all my heart.

Love

Papa.

Those words had first brought her endless joy and happiness-as all of her Papa's letters did. It only took her days to dash to her favorite window and began her eternal wait. She waited for the next letter or maybe even her Papa's long, lanky frame. Eventually that eternity had passed, and Coco still found herself leaning against the window, gazing out into the world with hopeful eyes only a child could possess. As the eternity stretched on longer and longer there was no letter and no Papa. Coco never whined and complained as many other children would. She simply stared longingly out the window and repeated the same two questions:

"When is Papa coming home?"

"How come there are no letters?"

Whenever those questions would escape from her lips Coco would notice how Imelda would change. She noticed how the corners of her Mama's lips would tighten or how the light faded from her eyes before she was pulled into a bear of a hug. Her Mama would gently pull her away from the window, but it was only a temporary solution. Coco was drawn to that window like a moth to a flame. The next moment she could she returned to the ledge and resumed her waiting. The longer she lingered by that open window the longer worry began to sink in her bones. Christmas had come and gone and there was still no sign of either her Papa or a letter.

There was nothing, and Coco noticed the longer there was nothing the more upset her Mama became.

And that, Coco concluded, was why her Mama was so upset she had slammed a door.

Coco kicked the blankets off herself and swung her little legs of the edge of the bed. She landed on the cool floor with a soft thud and made her way out into the hall. Her little feet pattered as she tipped toed to her parent's room. It was a trek she had made many times since moving to her own room. She had never dared entertaining the thought of cracking open that door when her Mama was upset. That February night was different. Her heart ached to wrap her tiny arms around Mama and turn her frown into a smile. She ached for her Mama to hold her tight and make all the confusion and fear disappear.

More than anything else, Coco greatly craved for someone to turn her world right side round once more.

With all the bravery she could muster Coco crept towards the door, ready to step on her pudgy toes and creak open the door. When she reached door though it was already hanging open. She inched closer, gripped the frame and peered in.

"Mama?"

Her little whisper floated into the darkness and disappeared. There was no response, only the quiet of a calm night. Coco held her breathe and put one foot into the room. She froze, waiting for a familiar voice to call out her name. When there was nothing but night, she entered the room.

"Mama" She called once more, her voice louder. Once more she was greeted with blackness. Her head tilted, her mind swarming with confusion. It was only when she had tipped toed to the bed Coco realized when her Mama had not answered her calls. The pillows were still perfectly fluffed and sat gingerly next to each other. The quilt and blankets were untouched, stretched immaculately over the bed. It was then Coco realized her Mama wasn't in the room. Unsure of what else to do she took a tentative step forward. When she set her foot down a smooth, paper like material caused her to pause. Turning her gaze to the floor, she could make out something small and torn peeking through her toes. Curious as most children are, Coco slid her foot back and gingerly picked up the mysterious object.

Coco let a thunderous gasp. Her jaw dropped into a large, round circle. Her eyes grew to the size of the moon.

Smiling up at her was the long, thin and boney face of her Papa. Coco knew that photo very well. It always sat proudly on her Mama's night stand where it could always be seen. Though Imelda had never uttered such a sentiment, Coco knew it was one of the few physical objects her Mama cherished. This caused Coco's almond eyes to scrunch with incredulity. Another piece of this awful puzzle had been placed in front of her… and she had no clue what to make of it. She looked up at the small nightstand and pattered towards it. The moment she laid eyes on its smooth top her puzzled expression was replaced with utter horror.

There was her Mama's favorite picture, freed from its simple wooden frame. It was thrown carelessly on the bedside table. It was faced blank side up, but Coco didn't need to see the faces on the other side to know what damage had been inflicted. The once pristine photo had sustained a large, clumsy and hasty tare. Coco's lips began to tremble, her eyes pooling with warm tears. She didn't need to flip over the picture to know whose face had been ripped away. The evidence was in her tiny, plump fingers.

Coco turned her watery eyes to her Papa's smiling face. She remained a statue as she stared at the photo, her thoughts becoming muddled. Everything was laid bare in front of her; the lack of letters, her Mama's growing fear and misery and now her Papa's smiling face in her hands instead of attached to the family photo. They were scattered in front of her in a jumbled mess for her to put back together. The task seemed insurmountable for the three-year-old. She continued to burrow her watery gaze at the picture, desperately trying to decipher what all these clues meant.

Then, just as if someone had turned on a light in her head everything made sense. She was finally able to connect all the dots at a blazing speed.

There would never be another letter with a sweet poem and little doodles. She would never see his tall figure making its way back home.

Her Papa was never coming home.

The tears pooling in Coco's almond eyes spilled down her full cheeks. The corners of her lips turned into a hard frown as the quivering grew ever more intense. Her little body trembled from head to toe.

"Papa…" She croaked, her voice choked by an oncoming sob. Her plump face was drenched and stained.. Coco hugged the photo to her chest. Every inch of her wished it was her Papa's warm body she was clinging to rather than his lifeless picture. She craved for any warm pair of arms to wrap around her and hold her tightly. She had never felt such a cold grasp of terror or felt so exposed. Coco's eyes darted around the room, searching for her Mama to embrace her. In her distress she had fail to recall there was no other soul in the room. There was nothing but darkness and a torn picture.

Coco's heart began to race. Her shaking became uncontrollable as her breathes were released in panic, strangled huffs. All instinct screamed for her to locate somewhere snug and secure place to hide. There was only one place such a small child could think of. With the photo clutched to her chest Coco sprinted from what had once been a safe haven back into the empty hallway. Tears continued to rain as she sprinted into her room. She pounced on her feather soft bed, gripping her pink blanket in her tiny fist. She pulled it over her head and curled into a small ball. All was silent sans for her muffled sniffles and cried.

Bewildered musings broke through her anguish, franticly attempting to make sense of a world that suddenly appeared cold and incomprehensible. There was only one question that echoed louder than the others.

"Does Papa not love me anymore?"

The very notion was alien to the child. She instantly shuddered as the question spun round and round in her hand. How could it be true? Her Papa loved her she knew he did. She could still remember being lifted into his scrawny but strong arms and being twirled around the house. She could still hear his smooth, gentle voice crooning as she drifted away to sleep. More than anything, Coco could easily recall how she felt in his presence. No matter what was occurring around her, she would always feel protected and adored as soon as she saw her Papa's smile.

Was it all a lie? Was it nothing more than a beautiful story, the kind of stories that would begin the process of lulling her to bed?

Coco's sobs ceased as suddenly as the had come. All the tears evaporated from her eyes. Her lips finally ceased their incessant quivering and her trembles vanished. There was nothing but the moonlit night, stillness and her soft breathing. Coco finally pulled her hands away from her chest. She held the picture up to her eyes. Even shrouded in darkness Coco was able to make out innumerable details in the torn piece of the Rivera family photo. She could see the long line of his face and the bump in his rather prominent nose. She could see how the mariachi suit he wore was too large for his thin frame. It was his relaxed grin that shone the most through the blackness. Her little thumb traced his pronounced cheeks with her thumb, just as he would trace her high cheek bones with his thumb.

In that moment, safe under her blankets, eyes burrowing at her Papa's familiar eyes, Coco made a decision. She vowed then and there she would never give into the thoughts roaring in her head. No matter what anyone told her, no matter how life may be telling her otherwise, she would never believe her Papa stopped loving her.

Deep in her aching heart Coco knew that her Papa still loved her. He still loved her and she knew he still loved her Mama. The fact his letters had stopped meant nothing. Where ever he was, she knew he missed her just as much as she missed him. He was out there, singing their secret song to the night sky. Because even at the tender age of three, Coco knew something Imelda could not admit. Something did not add up. Her Papa would never forsake them, not when it was in his own power.

Coco wriggled her head out from her cocoon, sucking in a deep breath of crisp winter air. She sat on her knees and reached over to a little table beside her bed. Resting gingerly on top of it was a thin piece of paper, crinkled from months of little hands gripping it. She grabbed it and brought it inches away from her face. The messy, loopy penmanship meant nothing to Coco. She could barely read in the best conditions. Yet she knew exactly what those words were and could repeat them-and that is precisely what she did. After taking a few lengthy moments to stare at the scrawl she stowed it under the pillow with the photo. She snuggled into the mattress, burrowed her face into the pillow and slid her hand under the pillow. Her palm rested on top of the letter and photo. As she closed her eyes her Papa's letter echoed in her head, drawing her back to a dreamless sleep.

Dear Coco,

I love you with all my heart.

Love

Papa.