They sit in the car - after the failed potion, after the green smoke, after the hope they had so carefully cultivated in their plans and their determination had evaporated - and they are silent.

She knows that Emma is waiting for her, waiting for her to be okay, to accept the truth – that Henry will never know her, never remember, never love her again – or to find another way to fight. But she can do neither (she is exhausted, so, so tired) and so they sit there. She stares ahead (because if she looks at Emma – his mother – she will collapse and she can't collapse, not here, not in this car, not with her) and Emma stares at her.

It's strange, this camaraderie they've built.

"You should see him."

She is quiet, unobtrusive, and it reminds Regina of another time – a year ago, in another world – when she had knelt beside her and been kind in that soft way that Regina wouldn't have thought her capable (the brash, heroic, bumbling savior).

(You're right. I don't know what you feel.)

"You know I can't do that."

"Henry would want it."

She laughs then, a short, derisive laugh because it's such a low blow, pulling out what Henry would want when Henry doesn't know she exists. What Henry wants, this new Henry who isn't her Henry but who is close enough to make her heart drop to her stomach and her coffee cup fall to the floor, is to go home to New York, to his friends and his video games and the mother she gave him in the blink of an eye and the squeeze of a hand.

"Look, I'm not gonna make you, but he's your kid and he deserves to have his mom around, even if he doesn't know it yet."

She doesn't say anything. She just looks ahead and tries not to fall apart because she doesn't deserve this kindness, because she brought this on herself, because this is her price, her curse, her unrelenting torture, because seeing him happy (without her) and older and looking right through her is more pain than she can handle (and she knows what she is capable of when she is hurting this way).

But it is so tempting. Because it's Henry and he's her son and he is good at school and loves English and reading (like he always has, since he was small, reading to her from Curious George books as soon as he was old enough to take the book from her hands) and she wants to know him.

Emma waits, gives her space, lets her breathe.

She is the only one, Regina thinks, who can do that. The others – Snow, her prince, the pirate – they press her for answers, expect her to know what to do at every turn. But Emma just sits with her and lets her think.

"We'll figure it out, Regina. We'll find our green poofy lady and we'll break her curse and hopefully avoid all other curses in the process and Henry will remember and you can go back to nagging him for spending five straight hours playing video games."

Regina smiles.

"Five hours? I leave him with you for a year and look what happens."

Emma smiles, too.

"You can berate my parenting skills – which you implanted, by the way, so I can't take all the blame here – later. For now, let's go see our kid, have some ice cream, whatever."

Regina nods. This is going to hurt like hell. But he's Henry and he's there and he loves ice cream and knowing him (her wonderful little boy) is worth the pain she'll feel when he looks at her like she's a stranger.

"Emma."

"Yeah?"

"What if we can't do it? What if he never remembers his old life?"

What if he never remembers me?

She is too tired to conceal her vulnerability, to be strong, to be the solitary statute that she had to be after Daniel, after every subsequent loss. Her heart is heavy and exhausted and Emma is beside her and she feels safe even with her heart exposed (because Emma knows, Emma loves Henry too).

"Then you make new memories starting now, and he'll love you in this life."

A pause.

"Okay."

Emma puts the car into gear.