The prologue of The Forgotten Bruja does not open with magic.

It opens with a word.

Cabeza dura.

Hard-headed.

Not strong-willed. Not resolute. Not a woman who knows her own mind. Just difficult. Defective. Something that needs to be corrected.

That distinction matters, because from the very first page, Isadora Espinal is not being framed as a girl who doesn’t understand her destiny. She is a woman who refuses it.

This prologue takes place in June 1958, but its emotional terrain is timeless: a mother gripping the last thread of control, a daughter standing at the edge of a life she has been warned not to want, and a house heavy with secrets that have never been spoken aloud.

This Is Not a Chosen-One Moment

Isadora is not being “called” to anything here. There are no visions, no omens, no whispered invitations from the beyond. What she is doing is far more dangerous.

She is leaving.

And in families like the Espinals, leaving is treated as betrayal.

What makes this opening so intentional is that the conflict is not framed as good versus evil. It is framed as inheritance versus autonomy. Altagracia does not threaten Isadora with punishment. She threatens her with guilt. With duty. With unfinished warnings and half-truths. With the same tactics Isadora has lived under her entire life:

Use this herb.
Say this prayer.
Don’t cross that threshold.
But never why. Never the truth.

That silence is the real antagonist in the prologue.

The Violence of Withholding

One of the most devastating moments in the opening isn’t when Altagracia grabs Isadora’s hand or calls her a cuero. It’s when she stops herself mid-sentence.

“He may be dead,” Altagracia says, “but he is not gone. And I can’t—”

Can’t what?

That pause is doing enormous narrative work. It tells us everything about the world Isadora grew up in. Knowledge was never shared. It was rationed. Power was never explained. It was enforced.

And Isadora is done paying for that.

When she says, “I am not responsible to finish what you started,” she isn’t just rejecting her mother. She is rejecting an entire lineage of silent suffering and coerced obedience.

Queerness as Freedom, Not Scandal

Altagracia frames Isadora’s departure as moral collapse: another country, another language, being with women, living however she wants. But Isadora never argues the accusation.

She doesn’t defend herself because she doesn’t believe she’s done anything wrong.

That refusal is radical.

In 1958.
In Willowshade.
In a family built on fear and secrecy.

The prologue makes it clear: Isadora’s queerness is not the problem. It is the escape hatch.

The Suitcase Tells the Truth

The suitcase matters.

It belonged to Juanita — the sister who left, who lived, who returned but never truly came back to Willowshade. Isadora isn’t just leaving her mother. She’s following a lineage of women who tried to step outside the boundaries and paid different prices for it.

Inside the suitcase are sensible clothes and The Second Sex. This is not a runaway fantasy. This is preparation. Thought. Intention.

And when the suitcase bursts open, spilling its contents across the floor, it mirrors exactly what Altagracia fears: exposure. Everything laid bare. Nothing hidden anymore.

A Threshold That Pushes Back

The final image of the prologue is quiet and brutal. The house resists Isadora — just once — before letting her go.

That matters.

This house has taken everything. It has given nothing back. And yet it does not release her easily. That single moment of resistance foreshadows what Isadora will spend the rest of her life grappling with: you can leave a legacy behind, but it does not stop reaching for you.

When Isadora steps into the sunlight and says goodbye without turning back, the relief is real — but it is not resolution.

It is a beginning.

This prologue is not about magic. It is about the first act of refusal. The first woman in the Cerradora line who says, No. Not like this. Not at this cost.

And history will not forgive her for it.

Want to read the prologue for yourself?

The opening scene of The Forgotten Bruja isn’t just an introduction. It’s a rupture. A door slamming shut in 1958 that echoes through generations of Espinal women.

When you join my newsletter, you’ll receive exclusive access to the full prologue, along with behind-the-scenes reflections on the Las Cerradoras series, early excerpts, and essays about inheritance, silence, queerness, and reclaiming power.

If stories about women who refuse obedience, challenge legacy, and choose themselves speak to you, this space was made for you.