As bars go, The Rabbit Hole isn't bad at all. A bit tacky in its décor, maybe, but the smell of smoke is less annoying than Amy had feared and she is totally in the mood for alcohol – just like every other patron scattered about.
Rory and the Doctor are making fools of themselves at the pool table. She wonders how her husband manages to play. Amy can only sit at a corner of the bar, numb.
Her sorrow weighs her down like an actual lead cape.
Never in a million years would she expect to find a kindred spirit in such a place: for who could possibly understand her – the fierce grief that washes through her every time she lets herself think of her daughter?
No, she is alone – and quite determined to interact with no-one and nothing but her glass.
And yet... and yet.
The gentle woman who sits beside her has such a kind face, and such a sad smile, and such an uncertain demeanour, that before she knows it, Amy is leaning forward and she and Mary Margaret, for that is her name, are sharing their scotch and lending each other a comforting ear.
Their friendship starts with Amy admitting they're strangers, travellers passing by, which apparently is unheard of in Storybrooke; this somehow morphs into poor Mary Margaret blurting out her story – because everybody in town already knows it, and she can't talk to anyone, what would be the point, but God, she needs to talk about it and Amy is kind and there and new.
And what a story it is: an absurd tale of curses and witches and True Love and sacrifice, of giving up a daughter and only meeting her again as an adult.
As unbelievable as it all sounds, Amy has heard weirder stuff during her travels, and her own story is just as incredible, just as painful – besides, playing with Time always makes things complicated, she should know that. And the way Mary Margaret's face crumbles gives credence to her pain in a way that resonates with Amy deeply.
"The worst thing is, we were actually friends, you know. Before I knew who Emma is, I mean. And I just... I'm her mother. I should- I'm her mother, I should know how to- I don't know. Comfort her, guide her. But she's an adult and she doesn't need me and I... I can't lose her, not again, I won't! I- I just don't know how to connect to her..."
Amy gasps in pained wonder.
It is agonizing and liberating at once, how much she understands this stranger in a bar, how much they share.
Before she knows it – before she can stop herself – her own story is tumbling out of her.
All of it – her odd pregnancy, Madame Kovarian and her eyepatch, the absurd experience of being replaced by a ganger linked to her mind, her horrifying labour, the Battle of Demons Run, the terrifying shock of seeing what she thought was her baby explode into liquid Flesh, River telling them her real identity.
"...and there she was, this amazing woman, strong, confident, everything I ever wished my daughter to be, but I haven't been a part of it, won't see any of it..."
She gesture helplessly to herself: "My body knows it just gave birth. But the baby this milk is meant for is a grown woman, who doesn't need me. And probably hates me. I mean, why wouldn't she? I failed her so badly... How can she possibly forgive me?..."
Mary Margaret's hand clutched hers, tightly, and their eyes meet in shared grief: "I know exactly how you feel."