Regina Mills doesn't always enjoy being home for Christmas, but she does enjoy going home.

She enjoys the way the December light bounces off of the snow-coated pines, the way their trunks stand out starkly in the woods that cradle the road as she drives north. She even enjoys the sight of the ocean, choppy and grey and unwelcoming as it is.

It's familiar. Like an old, worn blanket – not necessarily nice to look at all of the time, but comforting nonetheless.

And this year… This year, she's aching for familiar.

This year, it's well after dark as she crosses the town line, "Christmas, Baby Please Come Home" blaring from her car stereo in an attempt to keep her awake and alert on the darkened back roads. The moon filtering down through the thick woods makes the snow-covered ground glow blue, and Regina feels a sort of settled rightness in her middle at the feeling of being home.

Home isn't a feeling she's been able to indulge in lately, and imperfect though this home may be, it's better than the one she'd left to come here.

It's quiet downtown, the chilly streets mostly buttoned up for the night, shop windows all festooned with bells and pine branches and SEASON'S GREETINGS!, fake snow climbing up from their corners and wrapped boxes arranged behind the darkened glass.

There are a few lights still on – the Rabbit Hole has music pumping out into the street, as usual, and Granny's is still open for late dinners and boasting vacancies.

For a half-second, she's tempted to pull off right there on Main Street and book herself a room. It might be more welcoming than her destination, and certainly less complicated – but it would no doubt feed the small town gossip mill and Mother would never let her live it down, so she keeps driving.

Just before Main Street ends, curving into Hatter and then Mifflin, she passes Storybrooke Camp and Sport (now boasting signs for ski rentals and ice fishing augers) and her heart skips a beat, her fingers tightening a little on the wheel.

Her wedding ring feels heavy on her left hand, a weighty lie that glitters for a second in the streetlights and makes her heart twist and sink.

She tears her gaze from what maybe should have been but never was, forces her mind from what was and maybe never should have been, and takes the turn carefully, mindful of the ice that slips ever so slightly under one of her tires.

It's nearly midnight when she pulls into the drive of 108 Mifflin, but the lights are still on in the looming white mansion, an ornate wreath decorating the front door as usual. That and the potted mini-pines lining the walk are the closest thing Mother has come to decorating for the holidays – no surprise there; she finds fairy lights garish and pedestrian, wouldn't be caught dead with window clings or light-up reindeer, or glowing plastic Santas.

Regina kills the motor in her Mercedes and shrugs her jacket on haphazardly, stepping out into a bitterly cold night. She liberates her Louis Vuitton travel bag from the passenger seat and shivers as she makes a quick trek between those little pines, one hand holding her coat closed as the other lifts to knock at the front door.

Cora answers in a neat pant-suit, her face still painted, not a hair out of place despite the late hour.

Regina is suddenly painfully aware of the splotch of coffee she'd spilled on her jeans somewhere near Kennebunk, and the distinct possibility that said coffee and the granola bar she'd scarfed down an hour ago had worn away her lipstick.

"Come in, dear, you're letting in the chill," Mother beckons, and Regina crosses the threshold, dutifully shutting out the winter night.

The outside of the Mayor's mansion may be sparingly decorated, but the inside is another story. The grand staircase is wound with boughs of holly and pine all the way up, and there's a large, glowing tree in the sitting room. The whole place smells vaguely of spice—no doubt from the trio of fat candles burning on the sitting room coffee table—and Regina knows that she can count on an ornate Nativity on the dining room credenza despite Mother's ambivalence toward religion in general, along with another small tree in Mother's home office. There will be company towels in the guest bath, company soaps, too, all season-appropriate.

The combined effect is supposed to make the place feel welcoming, but Regina remembers too many Christmases from her younger years spent being told not to muss the holly, not to encourage more needles to fall from the trees, not to play with the baby Jesus and the little drummer boy.

Even now, in her early forties, the display carries a forbidden air. A feeling of look-but-don't-touch.

It feels like a showroom more than a home, especially now that Daddy is gone.

And yet, she's glad to be here. Would rather be here than in D.C., in that too-empty loft, not enough furniture yet to fill it. She'd decorated it a few weeks ago – silly, considering she's spending the holiday here and not there. But she hadn't been able to bear the empty countertops, the bare corners, the… new-ness of it all.

It shouldn't feel lonely, not to her. The divorce was her choice, and she tells herself night after night that she asked for this. For a place of her own, for an end to the exercise in boredom and endurance and strained silence that her marriage had become. She'd asked to be free, and she was.

She should be happy.

She's not happy.

Not even with her fragrant six-foot fir with its silver and gold ornaments, or the bowls of snow-crusted pine cones on the coffee table, the drape of silver bell garland over the mantle, or the sleek, white reindeer figurines perched behind it.

She should have gone with red and gold, she thinks, not silver. The silver just feels cold…

Speaking of cold, Mother tells her frostily, "Midnight is a bit late to arrive, don't you think, sweetheart?"

"I told you I would be getting in late," Regina reminds as she slips her coat from her shoulders again and unzips her boots. "I worked this morning, and it's a nine hour drive."

She shouldn't have mentioned the drive. All it accomplishes is making her mother huff, "I still don't see why you drove up from McLean instead of just flying. You could have chartered a car from Portland, and been here in time for dinner."

"I suppose I could have, Mother," Regina sighs, "But I wanted to drive. It gives me time to think."

"What on earth could you have to think about that takes nine hours?" Cora asks as they finally leave the foyer, and, oh, if only she knew.

Far too much is what Regina has to fill nine hours of thinking.

Still, it had been good – the long drive to herself, just Regina and her music, and then a conference call while she'd been snarled in some traffic around Philly, and a good chunk of a book on tape as she'd made her way past New York. There'd been a quick call with her lawyers to recap the divorce agreement she and Leo had signed, and when all the assets would be divided officially.

You know, business as usual for the beginnings of a Christmas holiday.

But Regina hasn't yet told her mother about the divorce – the ring weighing heavily on her finger is a testament to that – and she's not sure if she intends to break it to her at the beginning of this trip or the end. She can't imagine the news will be well-received.

So she holds onto it a little longer, dismissing, "There's always something to think about," as they head (unsurprisingly) for the den.

It's where Mother keeps her bar, and there will no doubt be a post-drive nightcap before Regina gets a chance to shower and sleep.

"I see Leo's not with you," Cora comments, predictably, as she reaches for a decanter of brandy.

Regina lies, and tells her, "He had work to do; he couldn't get away. But he sends his regards."

Cora nods slowly, pouring drinks both for herself and for Regina and bringing them over to the sofa Regina has settled dutifully onto. Only then does Mother say to her, "I'm sure he's getting lots of work done in St. Barts."

Regina freezes, her hand poised to grab the lowball but not quite grasping it yet.

So much for keeping her divorce a secret.

She feels very much like she had at seventeen, when she got caught necking with Daniel out at Lookout Point, despite Mother's repeated insistence she wasn't to waste her time with a boy so terribly common.

Busted. And small. And very much like she's failed to keep Mother's favor.

It doesn't help that Cora is looking down at her expectantly, but also with that hint of triumph behind her eyes. Like she's beaten Regina at her own game, and Regina supposes that, in a way, she has.

"I don't know why you felt the need to lie to me, dear," she says to her, and Regina finally grabs that brandy and takes a deep swallow as Mother sinks into the cushion beside her. "I'm your mother; and you're hardly the only person I know in your social circle, I was bound to find out."

It would be true, if their divorce had been at all public. But it hadn't been, it had been quiet, a low-key, mostly amicable parting of ways. Hell, most of their friends don't even know yet. They'd agreed not to break the news until after the New Year. Which means Mother must have gotten it from one of the lawyers.

Regina is sure—absolutely sure—it was Gold, that snake.

She should have known this would happen. Mother and Gold have known each other for decades, she just figured that attorney-client privilege might actually save her this once.

"I was planning on breaking the news this week – although preferably not the minute I stepped in the door," Regina tells her mother, trying not to fiddle with her glass despite the twisting nerves in her belly. "I wanted to tell you and Zelena in person, not over the phone. And as well-connected as you may be, the divorce hasn't been big news. We've kept it between us, for now. I thought it was a secret that would keep until the holiday."

She sees Mother's mouth pinch slightly at the mention of her other daughter, but she doesn't acknowledge the comment with more than a, "Well. What happened, then? You seemed like such a good match."

They didn't. They never had been.

Leo had been a mistake, a square peg she'd spent a decade of her life trying to fit into a round hole. He'd been good on paper – successful, driven, a mover and shaker in the D.C. political arena. And he'd afforded her the life Mother had always hoped she'd have. But the socialite life had never been Regina's dream, and she'd always felt stifled in it.

"I didn't want to spend the rest of my life attending boring galas, on the arm of a boring man, and then going home and having, quite-frankly, mind-numbingly boring sex—"

"Regina," Mother chides, as if she's somehow been scandalized by the idea of her daughter having sex with her husband. Or maybe it's just the honesty that has her so rattled.

"You asked, Mother," Regina reminds, taking another small sip of her drink. "I wasn't happy with Leo; I hadn't been happy in a long time. I'm not sure I ever was. I think…" She shouldn't say this, absolutely should not, but she hasn't had much to eat since well before dinner time, not much more than that granola bar, so the little bit of brandy she's had is already starting to go to her head. It makes her bold enough to admit, "I married him more for you than me. He made sense, he was a 'smart choice,' but he was never really my choice. That life had never been the life I wanted. I thought it could be, but…"

She shakes her head, takes another sip and says, "I couldn't bear the thought of spending ten more years just… surviving, and not really living. Much less another thirty, or forty. So I left him."

"You gave up," Cora says primly, and Regina's blood boils.

"I did not 'give up,'" she defends, fingers tightening around her glass. "Unless you're talking about the years I gave up trying to make a doomed marriage work."

Cora lets out a little huff and takes a swallow of her own brandy, but thankfully doesn't argue. Regina can tell from the sour expression on her face just what Mother thinks of Regina's excuses, though – and that's what she'd no doubt call them, "excuses", if she wasn't showing a blessed amount of restraint.

Thank goodness for Christmas miracles.

Of course, Cora not answering leaves dead air between them, a heavy silence that Regina feels the need to fill.

"He didn't even fight me on it, Mother," she informs wearily, a headache starting to brew behind her eyes (she should have gone with water, not liquor). "We both knew it wasn't right anymore."

"Well, I suppose you're happy, then," Cora says with a tight little smile, and Regina scoffs a laugh.

How her mother manages to pack so much disappointment into so little expression Regina will never know, and, "No, I'm not happy. I'm… sad. Or…"

Regina takes a deep breath. These sorts of talks have never been easy with Mother; the more Regina tries to be honest about how she feels, the more judged she usually ends up feeling.

But she tries anyway, telling her, "I feel like a failure. And a fool. And I feel… old. And lonely. And… adrift." Cora narrows her eyes as Regina talks, but she's listening, so Regina keeps going. "I may not have been happy with Leo, but I knew what to expect. My life was boring, but comfortable. And now… I suppose I'm just not used to being alone anymore, or to having nothing on my calendar but my own social engagements. It's… an adjustment."

"You chose this," Cora reminds, as if Regina doesn't know that. "But I'm sure if you wanted to change your mind—"

"I don't," Regina insists, shaking her head. "I don't want to go back to what I had. I just have to figure out what's next, that's all. But right now, all I want is a hot shower, and a warm bed."

And to not be talking about this with her mother.

"So do you think we could continue this in the morning?" Regina suggests, "Or later this week?"

"I think you should spend this week thinking about whether a divorce is really a good cure for boredom," Cora tells her, and Regina's jaw clenches. As if she didn't spend plenty of time thinking this through before she finally threw in the towel. But then Mother concedes, giving her an out with, "But it's late, and we have a whole week to discuss your options, so yes, we can continue this in the morning."

Regina is too relieved to even protest the promise of more meddling.

Instead, she takes her bag and climbs the stairs, settling in to the guest room that was once her childhood bedroom.

She unpacks her toiletries and her pajamas, and then she stares at the rings on her left hand, the thick emerald-cut rock and the diamond band. She'd kept them on to keep up appearances with Mother, but the jig is up now

So Regina slips them off, unzipping her cosmetic bag and dropping them inside, never to be worn again.

It feels good. Right.

A bit heavy, but somehow… hopeful.

When she steps under the spray of the shower, it feels like she's washing away more than the nine hours she's spent behind the wheel.