You aren't entirely sure which is worse, the way he looks at you or the way his voice has changed and you weren't there for it. (You also aren't sure what the hell Emma was trying to achieve with that haircut on your sweet beautiful boy, but you're willing to overlook it for the time being.)
Your hands tremble and your fingers clench open and closed in front of your stomach for what seems like an eternity. You gape and stare and your heart is so confused. He is in one piece, one beautiful piece, and god he looks like Emma, but he looks like you. So much of you. You can hear your heart thundering in your ears and there is nothing but Henry, there has never been anything but Henry. And there is a moment in which you are so relieved, because she took care of him when you couldn't and here he is.
This wasn't the reunion you had in mind, you never even had a reunion in mind. Because you said goodbye and you told your son that he would forget. But you, you never would. So you wake up every morning with an ache in your heart, in your bones, and the bed beside you is cold and the room down the hall is empty and the door is always closed. Because you must pay this price. Because for your son, you were the hero, his hero.
His face is blank. And you realize, he doesn't know you, doesn't remember, can't feel what you feel, but what you feel is most certainly making him uncomfortable.
"Oh, I'm sorry," you stammer, try to find something to hold onto, to ground yourself to. "I - I didn't mean to startle you."
And when he opens his mouth, oh, when he opens his mouth, it is most certainly not your little boy's voice that comes out. It's deeper, deepening with each word, and there's still an air of boyishness in his tone, but when you hear his voice in your memories, in your dreams, he hasn't yet grown that much. But he opens his mouth and he doesn't smile, not at you, not for you, "Oh, um, that's okay." He looks down, away, not at you.
He doesn't know you, not at all, because if he did, he would be in your arms. You would have your baby boy in your arms and whatever Emma is to you, she would be there too and she wouldn't be standing slowly slowly slowly, like you're a cornered animal, like you're going to attack, like you're going to fall apart in the middle of Granny's. (Which you might if she moves so god damn slowly. If she doesn't get there soon enough.)
You can smell the coffee, feel the places where it splashed up onto your stockings, hear the crunch of porcelain under Emma's boots, but you can't even think to move. He's here, your son, your most precious gift, and he's grown. He's grown so much and you know if he stands, he'll be almost tall enough to look straight into your eyes. You can't breathe either and then Emma's in front of you, saying your name, reaching out trying to do something, anything.
"Regina," her voice is breathless, soft, but she's here too. Like a dream, like a nightmare. "Regina, we need to talk."
She doesn't touch you, not yet, and you're thankful that she seems to remember enough. More. You can't look away, because it's too hard to believe, it's to much to bear, and Emma's moving forward again, so you move too.
"Come on," and she's gentle, so gentle, and you remember what you tried to forget.
And once your out of earshot, out of sight, you try to remember how to breathe. Emma's looking at you, standing too far away from you, but too close all at once, "He looked right through me."
"Because he doesn't remember you."
You're the most powerful sorceress in your realm, in this town, of course you were successful. Of course it would hurt like this.
"But you clearly do," and you want to reach out, but your hands fist the thick cashmere and wool of your coat, your knuckles white. Because if you do, those hands will tangle themselves deep in Emma's hair and everything you've worked so hard for will be undone.
She moves first, in the blink of an eye, and she's there, her face buried in your neck, and her hands at your hips. Your purse and your coat fall from your arms but you don't touch her, not yet. She's pressed against you, warm where you're cold, and you've missed her. You've missed her and you've missed your son, and you miss him still.
Your hands find the back of her head and they tug at that blonde mane until she's looking at you, until her eyes meet yours. And you hold her face between your shaking hands, "Why can't he remember? Why you? Why is he sitting with your parents and smiling and why not me?"
Your hands fall to your sides and Emma stumbles forward again, reaches for your hands, slips her fingers through yours. She can't apologize, won't apologize, and you'll be angry about it later, "Hook found us. With a memory potion and there was only enough for one."
"You should have given it to him." It comes out before you can stop it. Because even after all this time, and all of this, and Emma, you aren't a different woman, not a brand new person. After all this time without, you speak without thinking, without logic, without reason.
She doesn't respond, only brings your joined hands to your cheek and the back of her hand brushes against the hollow of it. You can feel the wetness of your tears at your knuckles and hers and she kisses you, soft and sweet. "Help me. Help me make it right." She kisses you again and again. "I'm no good with magic and curses," she murmurs against your lips. "But I need you, we need you, and he feels what you feel but he doesn't know why. Help me, Regina."
You wait for her to breathe again, and when she does, when she stutters against you, it is her turn to cry. So you nod and nod and your lips find the place right below her ear and you know, you won't know how to walk away from this again. Not them. Not this. Because your heart is so full of want and need and Emma and Henry and when your son remembers and the door down the hall is open and his room is full, you hope it will feel like home.