Henry's loved writing letters for years. Despite growing up in the technological age, his mothers have insisted he handwrite thank you cards after birthdays and holidays. They encourage him to write to his grandfather and Emma, instead of just sending an e-mail. He's found a joy in receiving mail, it can instantly change his mood in a single moment.

So, when his mother was sentenced to life in prison and refused to let him visit, he took to writing again. They talk on the phone at least once a week as well, but letters are better. He can go longer than the limits of the pay phone. Not to mention, he can take the time to wonder if he actually wants to say something. A verbal conversation only gets one draft, a letter can have several.

He's started some where he tells her the truth. He hates going to Hyperion Day and seeing all the kids that make fun of him and his mother. How Nicholas and Ava aren't allowed to play with him anymore because their mother worries he could be a bad influence. The way they haven't been to their favorite diner in a long time because it's just not in the budget anymore.

Those always end up crumpled at the bottom of his waste basket with candy wrappers and pencil shavings. Instead, he always includes the good. Winning the story contest (and sending a copy, of course). Going out for ice cream when Emma visits. Getting an A on his spelling test. No one has to tell him that prison is hard. He's sneakily watched a few episodes of Orange Is the New Black and can't help but wonder if that's happening to his mom. Bloody tampons in English muffins, turf wars and a crazy girl trying to kill you with crosses. He doesn't need to burden her with his problems.

Henry does his best shielding them from his other mother, too. He sees how she comes home from work exhausted and can hear her up for hours in her room trying to figure out the appeal. Try as she might, Henry sees the past due notices. He can hear Miss Fiona telling her that she's late on the rent. It's why he doesn't mention the class trip to the science center or that his shoes are pinching his feet. He packs his own lunch every morning and borrows books from the few students that will still talk to him.

It's also why he's disappointed when his mama sits him down to say they're moving to Stamford, but he doesn't argue. Mama has spent her entire life in the city, she loves it. There's no way she'd make them move unless there was no other way. He doesn't exactly want to move in with his aunt Kathryn but it's better than being homeless.

The would be 45-minute drive takes an hour with traffic. Henry sits in the passenger, which still feels weird. They didn't often drive in the city, opting to take the bus or subway if something was too far to walk. When they'd go on vacations or to visit his grandfather, he'd sit in the backseat watching his mothers. Regina always drove, with Mary Margaret playing DJ. They'd both sing in terrible, offkey voices to the 80s rock that Henry was raised on. It got increasingly embarrassing the older he'd get. On their last trip to Gettysburg, he brought his iPod and jammed headphones in his ear to ignore them. And still, Mary Margaret slipped her hand to the backseat, lacing her fingers through his and squeezing tight. Her eyes framed by heart shaped sunglasses, a big grin on her face.

"Are you excited, baby?"

It was impossible to not be happy around his mom. She had a glowing presence, constantly giggling or singing. Mary Margaret was the one he was more scared to piss off, but mostly she had a princess-like vibe about her. From her long curls to that smile. It was like birds helped her get dressed every morning.

The 80s rock still remains, but neither he nor his mama sing. He shifts uncomfortably in the seat that should belong to his mom. Bored with both books he brought; he starts to go through the glove compartment. He's not sure what exactly he's looking for, but it has to be better than sitting there memorizing the license plate of the blue Toyota in front of them. A few fast-food receipts, the registration and a loose hair tie do nothing for him. As he lifts the handbook for the car, he frowns. A pair of heart shaped sunglasses sit there. He takes them out and runs his fingers over the shape. A tiny scratch is at the top, probably from being so carelessly buried in the glove compartment. His mom bought them during a trip to the Mall of America. Mama called them corny, which just motivated Mom to buy them even more. She wore them for the rest of the trip with pride and for every summer after that.

"Kathryn will probably have lunch waiting for us," his mama's first words since they got in the car pull him out of his thoughts. He looks up at her, her eyes framed by their own normal shaped sunglasses on the road before them. "But what do we say we spoil it with a little McDonalds? I saw a sign for one coming up in a mile or so?"

It's a small consolidation. His parents say when they first took him to Disney, all they had to do was fill him with food and he'd keep going. It was always a distraction when he was smaller. A way to get him to forget about something sad.

His mama isn't stupid. She knows a medium fry and large chocolate shake won't make him stop thinking about his mom in prison. But it'll distract him for the moment.

And who is he to turn to down the first fast food he's had in months?

Henry's only in Stamford for two minutes when he decides it's a Manhattan wannabe. Tall office buildings that want to pretend they're the skyscrapers in New York, even though the latter could eat them for lunch. A large train station that could probably fit into Grand Central a hundred times over. People in suits rushing everywhere. A Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts on most corners. He spots one muesem that doesn't look very interesting.

Unlike the city, it only takes maybe 5 minutes to get to the suburbs. Lines of houses that have very few differences. Long winding driveways with multiple cars sitting in them. Gardens with picket fences. A kid walks down the sidewalk holding tight to his mother hand.

Kathryn's house is closer to the woods. It's got a mailbox at the end of the long driveway. Regina drives past a trove of trees and massive rocks to get to the huge gray house. A few full bushes surround the landscape, adding a bit of color to the otherwise drab property alongside a green door. Regina takes the key out of the ignition and lets out a deep breath. She looks over at Henry, that fake smile taking over. Henry misses her real one.

"You ready to see your aunt?"

As if that's the purpose of the trip. Just a visit to see Regina's old college roommate like they did a million times before with Mary Margaret. Sometimes Mal, Ursula and Carla came along to make it a real college reunion.

This time his other aunts remain in New York. His mom is in prison. This isn't just a visit. They're moving in with Kathryn and her husband, Fred.

"Yeah," he says instead.

They get out of the car, Henry throwing his backpack over his shoulder. The backseat of the Volvo is filled to the brim with boxes and suitcases, but neither make an effort to grab them.

They walk up the stone path and small porch. Regina rings the bell. If he were any younger and not as sad, Henry would've insisted on being the one to do that. The door swings open and Kathryn stands there. She's got the same pitiful smile all his aunts have these days. It's even worse than Regina's fake ones.

"Hey guys," she says. She wraps Regina in a big hug, lingering just a bit too long. His mama eventually pulls away and Kathryn turns to Henry. "Look at you, grown so much since I last saw you."

She says that every time. Can't think of new material?

Henry just politely nods. "Uh huh." He's suddenly reminded of the stupid height chart his moms have kept since he was little. They track his height at the start of every school year. Did his mama remember to bring it?

"Well let's not stand here letting all the bugs in," Kathryn says, leading them inside and shutting the door behind her. "Welcome. I have lunch in the oven, taco casserole."

Henry does his best not to wince. His aunt isn't the best cook. She has many other talents, but her idea of taco casserole includes raisins. Not that he's going to say anything.

"Sounds delicious," Regina lies. "I can't thank you enough for this, Kathryn."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all." Henry knows that's another lie. He once asked his aunt why she didn't have any kids and she said that she loved him so much but couldn't see herself having any around full time. "Fred is just out back finishing up some work. I'll show you to your rooms."

She leads them up a narrow staircase and past a few photos from over the years. Her and Fred's wedding, Ursula and Carla's. There's even one from his mothers' and some of Henry as a baby with his various aunts and uncles. A reminder of a time when things didn't suck so much.

Kathryn opens the first door by the stairs. A simple twin sits inside near a Pelaton and a table with a sewing machine. A desk is crammed in one corner with a small dresser in another. Kathryn gives Henry a sheepish smile.

"Fred told me he was going to move this stuff out," she says, her voice a little tight. "But I'm sure he will soon."

"It's fine," Regina speaks for her son. "Henry can live with it for a bit."

Henry nods in agreement. "It's cool."

Kathryn marginally relaxes. "Regina, you're next door."

"I'll stay here while you show her," Henry says.

His mama squeezes his shoulders. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I'll get the stuff out of my backpack."

"Okay, holler if you need anything." She presses a kiss to his forehead before following Kathryn out of the room. Henry closes the door behind them.

He throws the backpack atop the paisley green bedspread before crossing to the window by the desk. It looks back into the yard. In all the magazines and books he's seen of suburban yards, there's always a swing set or treehouse. This one has a nice patio with a grill, but no toys or anything. Another reminder that it's not a "kid house".

His apartment in the city has a park just a few blocks away.

Henry shakes the thought from his mind and goes back to his bag, retrieving one of his many notebooks and a pen. His mom's sunglasses sit neatly beside the boring books. He grabs those and places them on the hutch of the desk, sitting in the blue spin chair. His mom's desk had one of these, he used to love spinning around in it until his stomach ached.

The lined paper taunts him as he drafts his first letter.

Dear Mom.

We just got to Stamford. Mama's still acting weird, Aunt Kathryn even weirder. I know she asked us to come but I don't think she wants us here. She doesn't want kids. But I also know we can't afford the apartment anymore. Mama tries to hide it, but I know we don't have much money anymore. I miss going to the diner. I miss how we saw a show in the summer to celebrate us being done with school. I miss you.

Mama says one day we'll go back to New York. I don't believe her. Maybe for a visit but things are different now. She's working all the time. You don't let me see you. All we have are these stupid letters that I don't ever send you. I don't want to be in Stamford. I don't want you to be in jail. I want to go back to Gettysburg, even though I acted like I hated it.

Aunt Kathryn made her stupid taco casserole. I wish you were here to make fun of it with me and Mama. Uncle Fred left all this junk in my room and I have girl bedspread. I miss my old room, with the glow in the dark stickers we put on the ceiling together.

Did you really kill your dad? Why? Why wasn't I allowed to ever meet him? Why don't you ever talk about your parents or see them, when we see Mama's all the time?

I hate you for going to jail. I hate you for not letting me visit. I hate Mama for lying to me all the time. I hate her for not making more so we could stay in New York. I hate that I hate both of you. Dr. Hopper said it was okay that I did. He said it's "normal". Nothing feels normal anymore.

Henry blinks a few times before flipping a page and starting anew.

Dear Mom,

We just got to Stamford. Mama let us get McDonalds on the way. It was awesome! We won't have to suffer too much with Aunt Kathryn's taco casserole. Her house is still nice, though. My room is cool, I brought some of my stuff from home to decorate it. Aunt Kathryn is showing Mama her room. It'll be yours when you get out. Aunt Mal says it'll be soon. Maybe we could go back to Gettysburg. I know I pretended not to like it, but I really did enjoy it.

I miss you and I love you. How is the food in there? I've read it can be pretty gross. When you get out, Mama and I will take you to get whatever you want. I'd even be willing to try sushi again for you.

I better go, lunch will be ready soon.

Love,

Henry

He carefully tears the paper from the notebook, making sure to not get any of that scraggly stuff. It's his mom's biggest pet peeve with homework. He grabs his backpack and pulls out an envelope along with two stamps, one for the front and the other so his mom can write back. He neatly writes the address that he's memorized and folds the piece of paper so it fits nicely. Henry leaves the first draft in the notebook. Dr. Hopper says it's good for him to keep them, it's healthy to let his emotions out that way if he feels he can't tell them to his moms.

Henry will mail the letter later, after he inhales the gross casserole and pretends to laugh at his uncle's corny jokes. In the meantime, he sits back at the desk and reads the first draft a few times. Henry wonders if he'll ever have the courage to give it to either of them.