"I'm sorry," Henry says, sniffling back his tears as he stares out at the empty space in front of him. Regina feels her heart clench and a sad smile forms over her lips as she rubs her hand over Henry's Batman pajamas, hoping that he'll look at her and hoping that her smile will comfort him. But he doesn't move and doesn't acknowledge her touch; instead, he just stares at the foot of the bed as his jaw quivers. And for the very first time, she sees herself as Henry.

For two weeks now, they've been back in Storybrooke—and for two weeks, Henry has awoken each night from a nightmare. It's become almost part of their nightly routine. She now sleeps with her bedroom door open, anticipating Henry's restless sleep. For those first few nights, he'd waken her in the middle of the night and she'd invited him to lay with her until he fell back asleep. She'd stroke her fingers through his hair and rub his back, reminding him that he was no longer alone. But after a few nights, she woke first. She'd hear him beginning to cry in his sleep, low whimpers as he tossed and turned in his room down the hall. She'd get out of bed and go to his room; she'd turn on the light beside his bed and she'd sit down on the edge of his bed, slowly waking him by calling his name and stoking her fingers against his cheek, pushing away his straying tears. She was always careful not to startle him and always made sure there she was wearing a soft smile when his eyes fluttered open.

Henry never wanted to talk about it, so they'd always talk about something else. She wouldn't push him and when attempts at conversation inevitably failed, she would offer up an additional chapter of Narnia and that seemed to soothe him. In truth, she didn't mind the mid-night distraction. She was never one who slept easily though the night—the horrors of her past often played on repeat in her subconscious and there was a small part of her that was relieved when her thoughts were able to divert to Henry—though she wished it could be for another reason. No matter how much she loved the way he'd cuddle into her side and sigh contently as she read to him or how sweet he looked as his eyes began to flutter as he drifted back to sleep, it broke her heart that the past he'd left behind still found ways to plague him. Though, she knew better than most how difficult it was to put the past where it belonged.

That night when she'd turned on the light, his face was red and his cheeks were tear-stained. The blankets were twisted around his feet as he clutched so tightly to the flat sheet that his knuckles had turned white. His brow was furrowed and his jaw was trembling, and when she stoked her fingers lightly against his chin, he'd flinched. She'd called his name and rubbed her hands over his arms, gently shaking him to try and rouse him. Normally, his eyes would snap open at her touch, but this time, he just continued to whimper. Her heart clenched as she lay down beside him on the small twin bed and pulled him into her arms as she told him again and again that he was safe now, despite the fact that she likely couldn't hear her. She hugged him tightly until she felt his hands fold around her, clinging to her as he tried to catch his breath.

"You're okay," she'd murmured, smoothing his hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I've got you."

"I'm sorry…"

"Don't be sorry, Henry. You didn't do anything wrong."

"But I woke you up again."

"And that's okay," she assures him, pulling back a little so that she can look at him. She smiles gently. "I'm always here if you need me."

He nods and sniffles as he withdraws a bit, sitting up and hugging his knees to his chest. His eyes are distant as he stares at the foot of the bed, likely still thinking about whatever he'd been dreaming of. She hates to see this way, but she understands it.

Taking a breath, she stands up and offers her hand to him. "Come on," she says, tapping her fingers against his arm and wiggling them impatiently. "I have an idea." Finally, he looks at her and takes her hand and with no reluctance, he climbs out of his bed and lets her lead him downstairs to the kitchen.

She flicks on the light and pulls out a stool at the counter, letting go of his hand as he climbs into it. She can feel him watching her as she pulls out a sauce pan and gets out the milk, pulling a couple of jars from the spice cabinet. She grins back at him as she warms the milk and spoons in some honey and nutmeg.

"I've always had nightmares, too," she says, dipping her finger into the milk to test its warmth before reaching into the cabinet for a mug.

"Can I have the turtle one?" She grins and nods, reaching for the requested mug, her heart warming as a smile tugs onto his face. She pours the milk into the mug, then slides it toward him and situates herself on stool adjacent to him. He takes a tentative sip, licking his lips as he sets down the mug. "It's sweet."

"Too sweet?"

He shakes his head, "A good amount of sweet."

She laughs softly and takes a breath. "Have you always had nightmares?"

Looking down into his mug, she nods, "Yeah. But it never bothered anyone else before except for me."

"You're not bothering me, Henry."

"I feel like I am…" He takes another, longer sip of the honeyed milk. "Where did you learn to make this?"

"When I was a little girl I had a nurse," she begins softly. "And whenever I had nightmares, she would make it for me before putting me back to bed."

"A nurse?" He asks, his eyes widening in concern. "Were you sick?"

"No…a nurse is like a nanny."

"Like a babysitter?"

"Kind of," Regina nods. "But she lived with my family. She had a room next to mine and her job was to take care of me."

"Oh," Henry says, his brow furrowing. "Why did you need a nurse?"

"My mother…wasn't…" She takes a breath and shakes her head. "My mother wasn't very interested in being a mother."

"Oh…" He says again, considering the information—and she suspects, glad for a distraction. "Didn't she want you?"

"She wanted me, but we had a very complicated relationship…even when I was a little girl." She takes a breath, not quite ready to explain Cora or even how to do so, and she pushes away the painful memory that flickers in her memory of the night Cora came into the nursery and ripped out the nurse's heart right in front of her, deciding that Regina was now too old for a nurse. She'd been about Henry's age. "But my nurse was a sweet old woman who always knew exactly what to do and exactly what to say to make me feel better."

"Kind of like you…" Henry says, grinning as he takes another sip.

Regina laughs out, tapping the back of her hand against his arm. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just call me old." Henry just giggles in reply, taking another sip of the honeyed milk. "She also taught me that it helps to talk about your nightmares, that sometimes just having someone to listen to you makes all the difference." Henry's eyes cast downward and he takes a long breath, setting the mug back onto the counter as he stares down into it. "You don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to, but I think it'll help."

For a moment, Henry's quiet. He just sits quietly, rubbing his fingers against the mug. Just before she's about to try again, his eyes cast up to meet hers. "Do you still have nightmares?"

"I do."

"What are they about?"

"Oh," she breathes out—she doesn't want to lie to him, yet telling him about how she'd slaughtered villages and delighted in ripping out hearts is not an option; and thought of him knowing those things about her and looking at her as everyone else had was just too difficult to even imagine. "I just…I dream about thing from my past…painful things."

"Me too," Henry says with a nod. "Can I…tell you something without it hurting your feelings?"

"Of course you can."

"Are you sure?" He asks again, chewing at his bottom lip as she nods. "I started having this one dream after I ran away," he begins. "I would dream that my birthmother came and she found me and…and…she still didn't want me." He looks away, cowering down as he swallows hard. "I wasn't good enough and…I…I…deserved to be alone. And then I'd wake up…and was still alone."

Her breath catches in her chest as she slides her hand over his, "Oh, Henry…"

"I'm sorry," he says again, pressing his eyes closed when her fingers form around hers.

"Sweetheart, why are you apologizing?"

"Because," he begins, swallowing hard as he looks up at her, trying to keep his tears at bay. "The counselor I used to have to talk to sometimes said that it was just because I wanted my mom—I wanted a mom. She said that it's natural for kids who were given up for adoption to want to find their real moms."

"Oh…"

Tears flood Henry's eyes and he presses them shut, forcing out from the corners. "But I have a mom now—a really, really great one—and I'm still having that dream." Regina slides off of her stool and slips her arm around Henry's shoulders, hugging him tightly into her side—it's the first time he's referred to her as his mother and the moment is wrought in so much pain. "I just want to know why I wasn't good enough," he cries in a muffled whisper. t

"Oh, Henry. It wasn't you," she murmurs, pressing a kiss into his hair as she pulls him closer and thinks of the last time she held him as a baby, how her heart had shattered as she placed him into the social worker's arms and turned away, unable to watch his sweet hazel eyes follow her as she disappeared. "It wasn't you," she tells him. "Henry, whatever reason she had for giving you up, it wasn't you."

He sniffles, reaching up and rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes, roughly pushing away his tears. "But why then?"

He looks up at her with wide eyes, so desperately wanting an answer that she can't give him—yet so trusting that she can. Taking a breath, she loosens her arms around him and rubs her hand over his back, his sweet hazel eyes breaking her heart all over again. "I think…she just wanted to give you your best chance and…she didn't believe that…that she was it." Taking another breath, she musters a smile. "Maybe she was wrong," she adds quietly, speaking for herself.

"No," Henry murmurs, "She wasn't."

"What do you mean?"

"If she hadn't given me up, I wouldn't be here." A small smile twitches onto his lips. "You wouldn't be my mom."

Regina nods and smiles—she can't help it. Tears brim in her eyes as she lifts him off the stool and takes him by the hand. "Sometimes things have a way of working out," she says, feeling a rush of emotion as she thinks of Henry and the curse and the impossible situation she's created, part of her wishing they'd stayed in New York and started a whole new life together there. "Even if it takes awhile."

"Yeah," he agrees easily as they start up the stairs.

"Do you want to sleep in my room again?" Taking a breath, Henry shakes his head. "Want me to sleep in your room?"

"No," Henry says, grinning softly as they stand in the hallways between the bedrooms. "I think I'll be okay by myself."

Smiling, Regina nods. "Come in if you need me, okay?"

Henry nods, but he doesn't let go of her hand. "The adoption is going to go through, right? You're going to able to be my mom, aren't you?"

Once more her breath catches in her chest, but this time, a warm smile forms and she finds herself nodding. "Of course it will." Kneeling down in front of him, she kisses his forehead. "I promise it's all going to work out—and just so you know, I really like being your mom." Henry grins as she kisses his cheek. "Want me to tuck you in again?"

"No, I'm good."

"Okay," she says, standing up and giving his hand quick squeeze. "If you change your mind…"

"I know," he nods, giving her a small smile and making her heart flutters at the confidence in his voice. She says goodnight as she watches him go back to his bedroom and crawl back into his bed. He reaches over and turns out the light, and she takes a few steps forward, leaning against the frame of his door, standing there for awhile, watching as his eyes close and watching as he falls asleep.

"I love you, Henry. I hope you know that," she whispers into the darkness. "I've always loved you."

She stands there a few minutes more before returning to her own bedroom, flicking on the light and closing the door.

Moving toward the closet, she pushes back the clothes and shoes, her fingers patting along the top shelf until they touch upon a cardboard box. Inhaling sharply, she slowly exhales the breath and pulls the box toward her. Smiling sadly, she looks at it—it's covered in dust, but she can still read his name in her writing and she vividly remembers the day she wrote it. Tears well in her eyes as she remembers the day she'd returned home from Boston without him. She remembers how she'd stayed at home that day and the next, and then next one after that, not wanting to see anyone and not wanting to explain because those things would make his absence real.

In those days, she fell into a deep mourning—mourning the loss of the wiggly baby boy who'd filled her heart a love she never knew she could feel, whose hazel eyes made her feel like anything were possible, whose life mattered to her more than her own. At that time, she'd reasoned that giving him up was the right choice—someone as damaged as she couldn't be trusted with something so precious. After all, everything she touched, she tainted; and everything she loved was broken beyond repair.

Sitting down on the chaise longue near the window, she swallows hard as she slowly lifts the lid off of the box. Her heart clenches as she pulls out the tiny blue and white hat and the even tinier little socks he'd worn on the day she'd brought him home. There's a pacifier with a red train on it and a little stuffed bear she'd bought at the airport on their way back to Storybrooke. Beneath those things are a stack of papers, folded and paper-clipped together—and her brow furrows as she tries to remember them. Slowly, she pulls the paper clip off and fans them out on the bed. Her heart aches as she pulls out a photograph—the one photograph she kept of the two of them together, a photograph she took herself he as lay sleeping against her chest.

"Oh, Henry," she murmurs, as her fingers rub over his image. "I'm so sorry, Henry…"

Unsigned adoption papers and some notes about proper infant care supplied by the adoption agency are among the papers, but a sealed envelope catches her eye. She picks it up and tries to remember it; but she can't and it bears no markings that give her any clue of its contents.

She slips her fingers under the still-sealed flap, ripping the seal and reaching inside of the envelope. The papers thick are folded together and when she unfolds them, her stomach drops—and then suddenly, she remembers requesting the information eight years before—information she'd received, but never opened. She'd made her decision before it had even arrived, and opening it afterward felt pointless. Nonetheless, she couldn't part with the envelope, so she'd tossed it inside of her "Henry box" where it could be kept safe with all the other things she never planned to look at.

Clearing her throat, her mouth feels dry as she stares at Henry's birth certificate—and on it, his birthmother's name in the woman's own handwriting. She swallows hard and her hands begin to shakes as she the other papers fall away and her eyes linger over "Emma Swan."

Emma, she thinks. The name of Snow White's daughter; the name of the Savior.

Her stomach churns at the realization and possibilities of what this could mean swim through her head; her body feels numb. Taking a long breath, she slowly exhales it, then takes another breath as she tries to regain her composure. The tears welling in her eyes begin to fall and she does nothing to stop them. She thinks of Henry sleeping soundly down the hall, and she thinks of his nightmares; she thinks of irony that she would end up with the Savior's son—not once but twice. He was the baby who'd been placed in her arms all those years before and he was the boy she'd she'd happened upon that cold summer evening; and that meant that the boy she would do anything for was meant to be her undoing.

Folding the birth certificate back up, she collects the rest of the papers and stuffs them back into the envelope. She paperclips the papers and the photograph together, momentarily allowing her eyes to rest on baby Henry's chubby cheeks before she gathers the socks and hat and pacifier, returning everything to the box. Pushing her tears away, she feels her jaw stiffen as she returns the box to her closet and with a shaky hand, she reaches for the phone, dialing the number of Henry's social worker.

It doesn't matter to her that it's well past one in the morning and she doesn't care that he's likely waking him—she needs to do this now before the full weight of what this will mean sets in. Her stomach churns as the phone rings and she taps her foot impatiently as she thinks of Henry—she won't go back on her word and she won't make the same mistakes she made before. In this moment, she has a second chance—ironically, it's the chance she thought the curse would bring her—and she won't allow her fear to waste it. Henry is too important.