Regina made a height chart when Henry was four and started to grow and grow and grow. She feared he'd never stop growing, she waited for the day he understood that he was the only one growing.
Henry at four came up to her thighs and held her hand and said Mommy Mommy look what I maded for you! I made a picture of us standing by your tree! Henry at four ran ahead during walks in the park and picked up an orange and lemon yellow leaf, pronouncing it his leaf before handing it to her to find more. By the end of the day her arms would be full of beautiful leaves of all shapes and sizes and degrees of deterioration and Henry's smile would be brighter than any sun.
Henry at eight was impatient as she marked the wall with Henry - Age Eight and bounced, bounced, bounced on his heels. His hair had a cowlick and he squirmed when she tried to smooth it down. He scowled at his broccoli. He asked about his father. He's not in the picture, sweetheart. Her smile, too wide to be real, her eyes too bright to be emotionless. She never did get the balance completely right. But at night it would be superhero pajamas and a movie on Friday nights and a story before bed.
Henry at ten was a book called Once Upon a Time and all its consequences.
Henry at eleven bounded out the door before Regina could finish marking Henry - Age 11.
He did not save I love you and Regina stares and stares at the sharpie marks on her white, blank, cold wall. Castle walls were just as blank. Candles burned as hot as bulbs, and Regina is still just as alone.
She pursed her lips and capped the pen and eyed the residue on her fingertips with disdain. She curled and flexed her fingertips. Like Carrie from that novel. Flex. Like all that power would rush to her and she wouldn't feel so-
If you break a mirror, it's bad luck.
How about a wall?
Perhaps that would change things, but Regina's not superstitious.
Two years or so later, the wall still stands because Regina loves her son and those sharpie marks and the one squiggly, smudged line because he could not stand still because he loves the sun.
At thirteen, Henry, hands stuffed in his pockets, cowlick completely out of control, his voice so deep, is standing in her house–not theirs, not right now, his door is locked and his nameplate taken off–and Regina is smiling like every bit of her heart isn't breaking. She knows how to do that.
And although he doesn't know her, she tell that he sees right through her. And right be behind her. At a wall full of sharpie.
"Henry." He frowns. "Why is my name on the wall?"
"It's not you, dear." She lies smoothly, although her first instinct is to tell him everything. He's her mother and they took walks in the parks on Saturdays until she lost him to her own weaknesses. Of course Henry would tell the story differently. And perhaps so would Emma. Now that they don't hate each other.
(They never did, and she feels the emotions that follow like burning, a pleasant one that licks flames down her spine and settles like a hearth in her stomach.)
He opens his mouth to say something but that's when Emma comes into the room, her fingers poised on an iPhone.
"Sorry, that was Mary Margaret. Thought she was having contractions for real this time, but it's just braxton hicks."
Henry's still looking at the height chart, his brow furrowed. There's nothing after age twelve, and Henry's thirteen and she sees little dots connecting in his head. She would know.
He's her son.
Emma catches her watching him and lifts a hand to the small of her back. It's surprising, and yet not, and her touch is gentle and firm at the same time. Regina looks at her, that same furrowed brow before following Henry's gaze to the height chart.
Her eyes watch four, watch nine, watch ten, watch twelve.
Regina holds her wrist, closer to her hand, cupping it. She doesn't know what she's doing when her thumb comes up to stroke it. She doesn't know what she's doing when Emma looks at her like how do we explain this? Is there even another way but the truth?
But then the moment passes and Henry looks at both of them with that wide, sweet boy smile, and she's reminded of the gasp of air he took as his heart was returned to him.
"Pizza?" Emma breathes and smiles and says yeah, but no mushrooms kid.
Then Henry invites you to join them because it seems like you and mom are pretty good friends, and you're pretty cool.
Pretty cool. She raises her lips and her hands don't shake, because she can live with this for right now. No, not really. She's been mommy, she's been evil, she's been good, she's been mom, hero, you're not a villain. Now she's pretty cool, and some prices are crueler than others.
But for right now, yes. She is, and has to be. Not when he leaves and Emma leaves and there's white walls and the mirror she never fixed, or tomorrow. But she lifts her hand to take his and he doesn't refuse the offer and she squeezes it gently, very gently.
Her little prince, she thinks as loudly as she can, and as always, hopes for recognition to spark.