Author's Note: This is likely the last chapter I'll be able to post before Christmas, so I just wanted to say that you all are awesome and I hope you have a wonderful holiday. :)
Emma's heart pounded in her chest as she climbed the stairs to the apartment. She was not at all looking forward to the conversation she needed to have with Mary Margaret.
After talking with Archie, Emma had come to a decision regarding Henry. She had decided to tell Mary Margaret first because … well, she told herself Mary Margaret needed to be told first because the teacher would be affected by her choice more than most, so she deserved to know. A small part of her, though, wondered if she wanted to tell Mary Margaret first because she was looking for … not approval, really, but a blessing of some sort. Or something.
She arrived at the door of the apartment far too quickly for her liking. In light of the discussion the two of them had had this morning, Emma was kind of afraid that Mary Margaret would assume this new conclusion was fueled by the same kind of questionable decision-making skills that Emma had demonstrated last night.
It wasn't, not at all. The two outcomes were similar, yes, but the methods through which she'd arrived at them could not have been more different. Last night's decision to flee was born out of panic. Her new decision had come from careful deliberation. She just hoped she could get Mary Margaret to see the difference.
She squared her shoulders before wrapping her hand around the doorknob and pushing the door open. The second Emma stepped over the threshold, the aroma of simmering tomato sauce filled her nose. Good God, she was going to miss this, walking into an apartment that smelled like a restaurant. No, not like a restaurant, she clarified to herself when her eyes involuntarily closed as she inhaled the scent. Like home.
"Hi, Emma," Mary Margaret said warmly, snapping Emma back to reality.
"Hey." Emma locked the door behind her, wishing the teacher didn't sound so happy to see her. "I need to talk to you."
"Uh oh, that sounds serious," Mary Margaret teased, her attention still focused on the sauce. Only after looking up and spying the pained expression on Emma's face did she realize that her joke was ill-timed. Her smile quickly faded into a frown of concern. "What's the matter?"
Swallowing hard, Emma crossed the room and eased down into what had become her chair at the kitchen table. It won't be my chair much longer, she thought with a pang of sadness.
Mary Margaret tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot to shake loose as much sauce as possible before setting it down on a paper towel on the counter. She covered the pot and walked over to the table, sitting down across from her roommate. "Emma, you're kind of scaring me."
Emma looked up at the teacher, a lump already beginning to form in her throat. Here goes nothing, she thought. "This morning, you told me I have to figure out what's best for Henry."
"Oh, Emma, I was angry this morning–"
"No, you were right." Emma cleared her throat in an effort to dislodge the growing lump. It didn't work. "If I want to give him what he needs, I can't base that decision on what I want. It has to be about him first."
Her hands had started to tremble. She clenched them into fists and released them a couple of times to calm the shaking. "I thought my being here would be good for him. I didn't count on Regina being … well, Regina. What she and I are doing is dangerous, Mary Margaret, and it needs to stop. Which is why I think it's best if … I think it's best if I go back to Boston for a little while."
Mary Margaret's jaw dropped in surprise but she swiftly covered, closing her mouth. She leaned forward in the chair, resting her forearms on the table, and looked Emma in the eye. "I thought you decided this morning not to run. I thought you decided to face your fear."
"I'm not running," Emma insisted, "and I'm not scared. I'm … I'm taking myself out of the lineup." She wrinkled her nose at her mixed metaphor but she couldn't think of a better way to describe it.
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Mary Margaret said softly after a moment of silence. "How is your going back to Boston going to help Henry?"
Emma swallowed hard. "Every time I fight with Regina, something happens and someone else gets hurt. Just think about everyone who's gotten caught in the crossfire of this little war between her and me." She ticked the names off on her fingers. "Sidney, David, Kathryn. You, and most especially Henry. It's not fair, and it's not healthy for any of us. The only thing I can think to do to make it stop is–"
"Surrender?"
"Not surrender. Retreat." Emma smiled to herself. This war metaphor was much clearer. "I'm not talking about moving back to Boston permanently. I'll call, I'll come back to visit, and someday when she and I have worked out some kind of compromise, maybe then I can come back here to stay."
Mary Margaret's eyes brimmed with tears when she realized that Emma was quite serious about moving away. "I don't want you to go," she whispered.
"I don't want to go, either," Emma admitted softly. "I don't want to leave you. I don't want to leave him with her. But she's not going to let him go even a little bit without a fight and I can't put him through that."
At that, Mary Margaret wiped the tears from her eyes and gave Emma a tiny, proud smile. "You can't bear to see the baby split in two."
"Excuse me?" Emma asked, her brow wrinkling.
"The biblical story," Mary Margaret clarified. Emma still must have looked slightly confused, because Mary Margaret leaned back in preparation for some storytelling. "Two women approached King Solomon, both claiming to be the mother of a child. Solomon decided that the only fair way to settle the dispute was to split the child with a sword so that each woman could have him. One of them protested, said the other woman could have him if that's what it took, just as long as the baby wouldn't be split in two. And that woman, Solomon decreed, was the true mother of the child."
Emma hadn't recognized the story until Mary Margaret mentioned King Solomon. Tears burned her eyes but she blinked quickly to clear her vision. She watched Mary Margaret's face carefully when she asked, "Do you really see me as his true mother?"
"Absolutely." As was typical when Mary Margaret spoke words of encouragement, Emma did not see any tells. "You're doing what you believe is best for Henry, even though it's not what you want. You're backing away from the fight because you see how much it's hurting him. To me, that's no different than the mother in the Solomon story. Even if it's not true in the eyes of the law, you are his mother, Emma, his true mother."
"Thank you," Emma whispered. Mary Margaret smiled gently and reached across the table for her hand. Emma only hesitated a second before slipping her hand into her roommate's. Holy crap, she was going to miss Mary Margaret so freaking much.
"You're very welcome, Emma," Mary Margaret returned softly. "And just so you know, you will always have a place here. That room upstairs? Is yours, whenever you want it."
That did it. The tears that had been threatening to fall from Emma's eyes for the past few minutes finally spilled over. Thankfully, Mary Margaret didn't say a single word about them. She just let go of Emma's hand so she could properly dry her eyes.
It took Emma a moment to collect herself. "I'm going to miss you," she said once she'd finally gotten her voice back under control.
"I'm going to miss you, too," Mary Margaret admitted. "You better call me. Every single day. We'll have hour-long conversations about nothing at all, and I don't want to hear a word about how you hate the phone."
At that, Emma chuckled. During one of their very first late-night discussions over cocoa as new roommates, Emma had admitted that she could not stand talking on the phone. Even as a teenager, she'd hated the phone. Now, though, she was kind of looking forward to calling Mary Margaret. Maybe she'd just never had anyone with whom to have hour-long conversations about nothing at all before. "I'll call you," she promised. "Every single day."
"The first day you miss, young lady, I am driving down to Boston to find you," Mary Margaret continued with mock sternness. She tried and failed to hide a grin when Emma playfully raised her eyebrows at her. "Trust me, you do not want me coming down there. It won't be pretty."
"Yes, Mother," Emma teased, her voice soft.
"Like I said before," Mary Margaret said teasingly, "I figured I'm allowed to play the part a little."
As far as Emma was concerned, she was allowed to play the part more than a little. Even though there was no possible way she could be Emma's mother, Emma couldn't think of a single person she would rather have claim that title.