Home for Christmas
Sixteen Christmases in foster care. The seventeenth in jail. Single mother by 18. Emma was nothing but a cliché.
Of course she did not miss those sixteen years of being the human equivalent of a Christmas tree after Christmas day, just taking up space and no one knowing what to do it, except throw it away.
Her childhood years of overabundant, over expressive love were carefully buried under misdemeanours and trivial detachment that became second nature, a skin she wore convincingly.
Then there was Storybrooke and Snow, James, Henry. Regina.
All evidence to the contrary, happy Christmas, peace on earth.