Emma held the dreamcatcher in front of herself, concentrating on what she wanted to see. Still sitting behind her, I rested my chin on her shoulder so I could see what was happening. For a moment nothing happened. I wondered if we had done something wrong. Suddenly the threads began to glow , and then the entire circle started to fill with a gold aura that spun slowly clockwise. Finally, after a couple of seconds, an image began to appear.

"Look, Emma!" I whispered. She raised her head to gaze into the circle, and an involuntary smile spread across both of our faces; she had done it.

When the picture cleared we saw an image of a little girl, no more than 8 years old, dancing in a field of wildflowers and singing a wordless tune. She had warm brunette hair, with the smallest hint of red, and a face that was all too familiar to me.

"Mother?" I breathed. I could hardly recognize her, but it was most certainly her. I couldn't believe that a person like her could have ever been so innocent and full of joy.

The memory continued.

"Cora!" A woman called from the distance.

The young girl stopped singing and looked behind her. "Yes, mother?"

"It's time for supper! Come in and get yourself washed up!"

Cora leapt at the thought of food and started running towards the house. Before she got too far she stopped, deliberated, and grabbed a handful of purple flowers. She then continued running to the house. It wasn't a very large house; it looked more like a couple of shacks pressed up against each other; but to Cora it was a castle. She bounded up the steps to the doorway, where her mother was waiting.

"For you!" Cora said, eagerly holding the flowers out to her mother.

"Why, Cora! They're beautiful!" she exclaimed. She knelt down and hugged her daughter tightly with her other arm. "Thank you!"

Cora beamed, pleased at making her mother smile. She followed her mother into the kitchen where she had started to wash a head of cabbage.

"Now go wash up for supper!" her mother urged. "Your father will be home any second!"

"What's that I hear?" A deep voice said from the doorway.

Cora gasped. "Daddy!" she shouted, and sprinted to where he stood. At the sight of his daughter racing towards him he took the bag off his shoulder and, with one arm, scooped the child up and swung her around. Cora squealed with laughter.

"Daddy!" She protested, still giggling.

"Alright, now, that's enough," her mother warned, laughing. "Someone could get hurt, or break something."

"You 'eard 'er, lassie. Go 'n wash up so we can 'ave some supper, eh?"

The little girl nodded and dashed for the water bucket as soon as her feet touched the ground. She could still hear her parents in the kitchen.

"She's just a big ball of energy, isn't she?" her mother said.

"Aye: a strong lass with fire in 'er 'eart," her father replied. "She'll need that if she's gonna make it in this world."

The picture faded out, colors swirling in the center of the circle, until a new scene formed.

Cora held her father's hand, crying bitterly. She felt his own hand shaking, though he had finished crying days ago.
She seemed to be about ten years old now. Only two years had passed, but in this moment all of the joy and laughter had seemingly disappeared.
They stood together, staring at the pile of rocks at their feet and the makeshift cross staked to the ground.

Cora let go of her father's hand brought a bouquet of purple wildflowers from behind her back. She looked at it for a moment, a single tear falling on one of the soft, vibrant petals. Then she leaned down and set the small bouquet on the grave. She whispered as silently as she could, so her father wouldn't hear, "I'm sorry, Mother."

I hadn't realized that my eyes had begun to water until the image in the dreamcatcher became blurry. I wiped the tears away just in time for the dreamcatcher to show us another scene.

Cora was outside, carrying the heavy bucket of water from the well on the hill to the house down below. Although it had never been the prettiest house, now it looked downright miserable. It was dirty and dark, and in need of repair. Cora looked about thirteen now, her womanly features just barely starting to show.

She struggled with the bucket all the way up the rickety steps and dragged it along the floor until she was in the kitchen. She stood up, finally, wiping the sweat off her brow. Then she turned around and saw her father sitting on a stool, passed out in the corner with a bottle in his hand.

She didn't want to do it, but she knew that he had to run the mill, or else they'd starve. So she tried to wake him gently. "Father?" she whispered, shaking him gently with trembling hands. He didn't stir. She shook him a little harder, and spoke a little louder. "Father?" Again, he didn't stir. She tried a third time. "Fath-AAH!" She yelped as, suddenly, her father's hand whipped out and slapped her across the face. She fell sideways against the wall, the side of her face red and stinging.

"Whazthizere?" her father slurred.

Cora was sitting against the wall, trying not to cry. However, a few traitor tears fell down her cheeks. Her father opened his eyes groggily and looked around, shielding his eyes from the low sunlight. He stood up slowly, leaning up against the wall for support. Then he spotted his daughter on the floor holding her cheek.

"Geddup," he said, grabbing her wrist and yanking her up off the floor. Then he saw the tears. "Oh, dry up. I didn't hit ye that 'ard."

"Yes sir," Cora said, sniffling and wiping way the last of her tears. She sat there a moment, terrified. Finally she worked up the courage to say, "Father...don't you need to go to the mill?"

"Don't ye be tellin' me what I ought to be doin'!" he thundered. Cora winced, but didn't cower. "I know what my job is," he continued. "I can't say the same for you, apparently."

"What?"

"Don't ye 'ave flour to deliver?"

Cora looked out towards the mill, where sacks of flour were stacked. "All of that?" she asked incredulously.

"Aye, lassie. Every last bit of it," he replied.

"But there's so much, and it just gets so heavy..." Cora realized what she was saying and closed her mouth. But it was too late. Her father took a step closer to her and leaned down so his face was uncomfortably close to hers.

"Ye say it's too heavy?" he asked, too nicely. Cora felt suspicious, but nodded her head. Her father nodded. "Perhaps you're right," he said quietly, placing his hand on her shoulder.

Cora smiled. Finally, it looked like old father was speaking to her again.

He smiled slightly. "Or maybe you're just a lazy BITCH!" he screamed, tightening his grip on her shoulder and dragging her outside. Cora struggled against her father's grip, but years of labor had made him strong.

"You need to learn to do as your told without any if this back talking," he growled. He walked to the tree in front of their house and broke off one of the flexible branches, fashioning a switch. Cora saw the branch in her father's hand and was terrified; it was just barely thin enough to work as a switch, but thick enough to do a lot of damage.

Her father loosened his grip for a brief second, but that was enough. Cora ripped herself free and tried to run. But her father was faster. He grabbed the bottom of her skirt just in time, making her trip and fall into the dirt. She tried to crawl away, but he held onto her skirt tight. As she struggled he beat her with the switch over and over and over again. Every plead and protest only made the beatings come faster and harder.

Only when she lay still, bright red lines cross-crossing her back and the back of her dress shredded, did he stop. He stood over her, breathing heavily. Finally he dropped the switch on the ground next to her limp body.

"You should have been the one to drown!" he spat. Cora merely cried silently, trying not to anger him further.

"Now," he said, throwing a shawl on top of her, "go deliver that flour." He turned his back to what he'd done and left her there.

Cora just lay on the ground for a minute. Her back was burning in pain; she couldn't believe her father would do that! Fearing his wrath, she slowly got up, every inch a new shot of pain. She walked over to the mill, loaded up the wheelbarrow, and started walking down the road to town. She gritted her teeth in pain, but waited until the house was out of sight before she set the wheelbarrow down and cried.

Suddenly, she lifted her head, as if she heard something...

The memory had been growing steadily fuzzier the last few seconds. Then, suddenly, the picture became indistinguishable, just a clump of moving shapes and colors.

"Wait, what? What's happening?" I asked.

"I don't know, it just quit!" said Emma.

"Can you pull it back up?"

"I'm trying!"

I felt Emma's muscles tighten as she pushed the magic with all of her might. The dreamcatcher glowed brighter and brighter, but the picture didn't get any clearer. Suddenly, there was a bright flash that blinded us both. When we could see again, the aura was gone: the dreamcatcher was just a dreamcatcher.

"What the hell happened?" Emma asked. "I had it then...I don't know."

"It's okay, Emma," I assured her, rubbing her back soothingly. "It wasn't your fault."

"How is it not my fault? I failed." She hung her head.

"I don't think anyone could have pulled that memory."

"Why?"

I sighed. "Because I think she doesn't even remember what happens next." I got up and walked around so I was in front of her and took the dreamcatcher in my hand. I examined it to make sure it was crafted right and, sure enough, it was perfect. "There's only one reason why the dreamcatcher wouldn't have been able to show us the rest of the memory," I continued. "That memory has been wiped away."

"With what, like, a memory potion or something?"

"Possibly."

"But why..." Emma didn't even finish asking her question.

"I don't know," I sighed. "It's impossible to tell without knowing what the issue was." For a moment we didn't say anything. Suddenly I threw the dreamcatcher against the wall. "All of this was for nothing!" I yelled in frustration. Then I calmed down, my anger replaced by disappointment, and slumped against the wall. Emma immediately got up out of her chair and grabbed my shoulders firmly, forcing me to look straight at her.

"We will defeat her, Regina," she said determinedly . "We've faced worse than this, and we will make each other stronger." She relaxed her grip a little and placed one hand on my cheek. I automatically leaned into her warm touch. She leaned in closer, so our faces were only inches apart. "I believe in us," she whispered.

As I looked into her beautiful emerald eyes I was mesmerized by their bright intensity. I nodded in agreement.

She smiled and closed the distance between us. It was sweet and tender, calming and reassuring me. However, even as we kissed I couldn't help but think about my mother and the horrible things I had just witnessed. I couldn't help but wonder: if that's what my mother chose to remember, what was so bad that she felt the need to wipe it away from her memory forever?