It's the two of them, Henry still in his pajamas and perched on his stool at the kitchen counter, and Regina, wrapped in her robe, bent at the waist to rest her elbows on the counter. The room is bright with sunlight and Henry's smile is damn near angelic, and just for Regina.
They haven't noticed you, not yet, and you stay just out of view, watching. Regina keeps herself at eye level with Henry and her smiles are easy here with just your boy and the morning sun.
"Should we wake Ma?" Henry leans forward to mimic Regina's posture, his elbows on the counter now too. "It's almost nine."
"Let her sleep," Regina curls her hands around a mug of coffee and looks up at the microwave clock. "She needs more rest than she allows herself."
Henry calls you Ma now, his lips always curl up at the end, and you never knew one syllable could be so beautiful. Regina calls you many things, some whispered into the dark at night when she thinks you're asleep, some she sings against the shell of your ear as she takes your jacket when you come home from work.
They are home, this is home, sweet and solid beneath your feet, within your heart. But every now and then, you wonder what it was like, just the two of them, before curses and my real mom. Every now and then, you feel like you're intruding upon something that isn't meant for you. It stills you and makes you small, it builds its home in your spine and your shoulders hunch and curl in. It makes you mumble apologies you don't mean and feel guilt you never asked for. Because they were always together, while you were always alone.
You still feel that push between your ribs, like when Henry cried mommy in the dark creaking cabin on the Jolly Roger. And the weight on your chest when Regina was there, her arms around him and her soft sweet voice, I'm here, I'm here. You're safe, querido. She rocked him back and forth, held him close close close, so he could hear the beating of her heart, with sweet gentle whispered words until he fell asleep again. And you grasped the thin blankets beneath you, in your angry angry fists, because Henry is light and Pan made him dark, dark like you, dark like Regina. But there, she was all light and she held your son, the two of you, yours, and you couldn't look away. Not when all you'd hoped for as a child, not when all you'd hoped for for your child, was right there in front of you. It wasn't until Henry was asleep, Regina too, that you'd cried. Cried gasping aching sobs that you felt in your bones, for Henry, for the squirming bundle of blue you'd held in your arms twelve years ago, for the boy who found you when you had nothing, no one, because he wanted you. And you found you couldn't breathe when you thought about the mother you never had, and the mother that found your son. And you thanked god that he was wanted when you were not.
Henry's voice pulls you back, he's asking about chocolate chip pancakes and bacon, and Regina is chuckling softly. She stretches, arms high above her head, so unlike herself, but she's smiling the whole time.
"Let's wait for your mother," and the word mother doesn't hold anger and sharp sadness like it used to. It's warm and full of affection so you can't help but step from your place behind the door.
"Go ahead, I'm up, I'm here," you pad into the kitchen, slide onto the stool next to Henry.
Regina sees first, something in your eyes isn't as bright, something in your shoulders is a little too heavy, "Emma, linda, what's wrong?" She makes her way around the counter to stand beside you. She pushes your hair from your forehead, runs her fingers through the ends.
These are things you've only talked about when she can't see your face, when the lights are out at night and you're curled against each other, your head against her chest. When you can hear the soft thump thump thump of her heart against your ear and when she is fierce and soft all at once.
When you look up at her, when your eyes meet hers, she understands. She brings you close, so you're pressed to her heart, to her breast. "You're here, you're with us," her voice is a soft rumble against your ears, her lips pressed to the top of your head. "You are ours, and we are yours. Siempre, querida, always."
"Yeah," Henry echoes as Regina kisses your forehead. He wedges himself between the two of you, presses his forehead to yours. "We've got each other."
The space inside of you, the empty one, the one that says no, it's a little less so now, with them here, holding you, keeping you together when it feels like breaking apart.
"Emma?" Regina's hand is flat between your shoulder blades, warm and steady, and she watches you, watches Henry. She wants to make sure.
"I'm okay," you swallow and your next breath is fresh and it feels too big for your chest, your lungs. "I'm okay."
"Siempre," she murmurs and kisses the top of Henry's head for good measure, but the hand against your back stays even when he crawls into your lap, growing young man and little boy all at once. But neither of you had this, not with each other. So he curls against you, head to your chest, and you take a deep breath.
You curl one arm around him and, repeat the word softly, so Regina knows you heard. "Thank you."
She nods her response and steps away, back to the cupboards and the stove, back to Saturday morning. Henry stays for a little while longer, until he smells bacon and Regina's sliding plates across the counter. He sits slowly before he moves himself back to his seat and claims his plate. You're slower to reach for your own meal, you lock eyes with Regina and you can't quite smile yet, but she nods, reaches across the counter to push your plate closer.
"Thank you," you rasp and she nods again.
This is home, they are home. And you want more than ever for that space that says no, the space that says bad, the one that makes you feel alone, the empty one, you want it to fill up with them. You want it to fill up so full of them that it doesn't feel like breaking. That it doesn't feel like grieving and alone and that it feels like querida and Ma and always. Because you're a family, the three of you, because this is home. They are home. They are always home.
"Siempre," you say, and it sounds like breathing.