Emma stared at the canvas in front of her, trying to decide if she was finished or not. Her latest rendition of 'the Evil Queen' (as Henry liked to call her) was the best one yet, in her own opinion. Those dark, menacing eyes seemed to bore a hole right into her, and yet, she thought they looked a little bit sad. There was a longing there, something Emma couldn't quite figure out. She hadn't meant to paint her that way, but somehow, it seemed to work. It gave her a layer of complexity Emma hadn't been able to attain in any of her other paintings of the Queen.

Narrowing her eyes, she continued to scrutinize the painting. She'd dressed the Queen in a velvet dress, with a tight corset top that pushed up her bodice, and a skirt that flowed nicely, outlining her legs, outstretched on the chaise she rested in. Her jaw was set and her eyes gazed out with intensity, as though she was sizing up the viewer like prey. Still, somehow, she almost seemed to be inviting Emma into her space at the same time and - not for the first time - Emma wished she was real, and that she could just walk up and touch-

Emma shook her head to break herself of the Queen's trance, and wiped her hands on her jeans, smearing even more paint on them than had been there before. Henry would be home from the library soon, and she really should get started on dinner. She smoothed out her hair and tightened her long blond ponytail as she headed into the kitchen and began rummaging through the cupboards for something to make for dinner. They were in desperate need of groceries, but Henry had outgrown another pair of shoes that had needed to be replaced, and it would be another week at least before Emma had money for food. Knowing Henry wouldn't complain about having the same thing for a third night in a row, she pulled a can of chicken noodle soup from the cupboard. She opened the can and poured the contents into a sauce pan that was missing its handle, and went back to look at her painting again as she let the soup warm on the stove.

Crossing her arms and cocking her head to one side, Emma stared at the painting. She had painted the queen's dress a deep blue this time, mainly because she'd run out of alizarin crimson so she'd had to make do with what she had on hand, but she felt like it gave this painting something that the others didn't have. And, as she felt herself falling in love with yet another portrait of her make believe queen, she sighed, knowing this was yet another painting she would never even attempt to sell.

And that was supposed to be the point of all this, wasn't it? Well, beside the fact that painting was one of the few things that brought her joy in this meager life, outside of Henry. She worked two jobs just to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table, and she was failing miserably at the second part more often than not, but painting … painting gave her a chance to escape. It was supposed to turn into a third source of income, but Emma hadn't managed to pull that part off just yet.

Henry loved her paintings, too. Ever since he'd learned to read and write, he'd sat on the floor while she painted, writing elaborate fairy tales to go along with the paintings she was creating. For a brief, fleeting moment, Emma had considered that perhaps she could compile them together - her images with Henry's words - and produce children's books, but she had no idea where to start and no time to even try.

Emma knew Henry needed to escape the mundane as much as she did - maybe even more so. At the age of ten, he was so smart and so precocious, but socially awkward. The kids at school picked on him relentlessly for having a young mom, and because they were so poor. Emma hated that there was nothing she could do to change either of those facts, but ever since her foster parents had kicked her out at the age of seventeen, when they found out she was pregnant, it had been just her and Henry against the world. And here, in their apartment, when they created magical stories together, that was the only time she felt like the world wasn't winning.

Emma startled a little at the sound of the door opening behind her, drawing her from her thoughts.

"Hey, Mom," Henry greeted as he strode through the door, his arms laden with library books. "What's for dinner?"

"Chicken soup," Emma said, scrunching her nose up apologetically at the answer.

"Cool," Henry said with a shrug as he dropped the books on the couch. His eyes were already fixated on Emma's newest painting. "You finished it?"

"I think so?" Emma said, following Henry's gaze back to the canvas again. "What do you think?"

"I like it," said Henry, with an emphatic nod, his eyes never leaving the painting.

"Well, you keep on contemplating it while I go finish up dinner, okay kid? Then you can hit me with your honest critique."

Emma grabbed a dish towel from the drawer to use as a makeshift oven mitt, and carefully grabbed the hot pot from the stove, pouring it into two bowls. It wasn't easy without a handle, but she'd gotten used to it after nearly a year of doing it this way. She dropped the pot into the sink and picked up the two bowls, calling for Henry to set up the TV trays.

They didn't watch TV during dinner, but without a kitchen table, the couch and two TV trays were their only option for dining. Though a neighbour had recently managed to splice them free cable, she still insisted on no TV during dinner, since for years that had been her favourite time to sit and enjoy Henry's company.

"How was the library?" Emma asked, as she watched Henry blow on his soup.

"Good. Basically empty, but I got a lot of books."

"I can see that," Emma said, with a smile.

"Did you know she was once in love?"

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Who? Mrs. Fulton?" she asked, referring to the librarian. She knew the sweet old lady had taken quite a shine to Henry over the years, but she hadn't really expected for her to start divulging her love life to a ten year old.

"No!" Henry said, with a laugh. "Well, maybe, I guess, but I meant the Evil Queen. Before she was evil. When she was good."

"She used to be good?" Emma asked, with a quick glance to her painting. When Henry was younger, he used to tell her stories about her characters all the time, but in the last year or so he'd become a little more self-conscious and secretive about his stories, so she was eager to hear what he'd come up with now.

"Mm-hmm," Henry said, through a mouthful of soup, swallowing it before he continued. "When she was young, she was good. It was her mother who was really evil. She just wanted to use her to gain power. She even named her Regina, because she was so determined to make her a queen. It means Queen, you know?"

"Regina," Emma repeated. Until this moment, the queen hadn't had a name, but she could tell Henry had put a lot of thought into this, and she had to admit, the name suited her. "So tell me about this love of hers?"

"Well…" Henry started slowly, and for a moment Emma thought maybe he'd regretted starting. "He was a stable boy, and he was poor, so of course Regina's mother didn't approve. She didn't want her daughter marrying a commoner, you know? So she killed him before they could run away and get married."

"That's terrible," Emma said, frowning slightly. None of the stories Henry had told her had contained murder, before now.

"Yeah," Henry agreed. "Awful. And Regina was devastated. And her mother forced her to marry a King and become a Queen. And King had a daughter, who was..."

"Snow White?" Emma guessed, and Henry grinned.

"Oh, so you already know this story," he chided.

"Vaguely," Emma admitted. "But I like your version much better."

"You haven't even heard my version!"

"Well then tell me. I'm on the edge of my seat."

Henry rolled his eyes, but delved into the story anway. "Well, you see, Regina was planning on running away with the stable boy so she didn't have to marry the King, but Snow White told Regina's mother, and Regina's mother killed the stable boy. She ripped his heart right out of his chest!"

"Well, that's morbid. Why would Snow White tell?" Emma asked.

"Well, she didn't mean to, really. She was just a kid, and she thought she was helping. But then Regina had to marry the King, and she was miserable. Her life basically sucked, and she spent all her time blaming Snow White for it."

"Well, can you blame her?"

Henry shrugged. "I guess not. But then Regina had the King killed so she could finally be free, and she wanted Snow White's heart as well, for her revenge. It never had anything to do with Snow White being prettier than her."

"Yeah, that's kind of a weak motive," Emma agreed. "Yours is much better. You're a good story-teller, Henry."

"Thanks," Henry said, looking down at his soup, unable to hide how red his ears were growing at the compliment.

"So what happened next?"

Henry shrugged. "Don't know. Her story's not over yet. Snow White is still out there someplace, and Regina's still trying to find her and kill her. But she doesn't know that even if she succeeds, it won't bring her happiness. Her anger is all she knows."

"Kinda makes you wanna give her a big hug, doesn't it?" Emma commented, casting her eyes toward her painting again. Somehow, the Evil Queen's eyes had a new level of depth and sadness now that she had a name and a story, even if it was all made up.

"Yeah," Henry agreed. "Maybe paint her happy and I can write her a happy ending?"

"Maybe," Emma said, though the idea of painting the Queen happy had never crossed her mind before. Somewhere deep inside, where she got the inspiration for the images she painting, something told her how to execute them, and that little voice always told her to paint the Queen sad. She'd never thought to question it before.

After dinner, she sent Henry off to his room to work on his homework, and she started on the dishes. She shoved a dishcloth into the drain and began filling the sink, reminding herself yet again that she really needed to get to the dollar store and get a new drain stopper, since the last one had cracked. It had been on her to do list for ages, but the list just kept growing and growing and there just never seemed to be enough hours in the day.

At least, with only two of them, cleaning up from dinner was a quick task. She'd never imagined, when she'd met Neal at the age of seventeen, that ten years later he'd be long gone from their lives, and she'd be raising their kid alone, but, despite everything, she wouldn't want it any other way.

Even if being a single mom did get lonely sometimes...

That night, after Emma had gone to bed, and long after Henry was supposed to be asleep, he sat up cross legged in his bed, blanket pulled over his head so his mother wouldn't see the light from the flashlight under his door if she happened to get up in the night. Henry often spent his nights like this, reading, distracting himself from the worry of what the next day would bring. While Emma knew some of the torment he faced from his classmates, he kept a lot of it a secret too, knowing that she had enough stress to deal with as it was.

Today, a boy named Kenny, who was a year older and nearly a foot taller than Henry, had told him he better watch his back tomorrow. Henry tried to keep to himself as much as possible, but for some reason, even sitting alone at lunch, nose buried in a book, was enough of a reason for Kenny and his friends to torment him.

But that was a tomorrow problem, Henry decided.

Tonight, he opted for writing over reading, plotting out another adventurous chapter of his Snow White and the Evil Queen story, inspired by Emma's newest painting. This story came so easily to him, as if inspired by some force outside of himself, but he had a hard time believing it was good, despite what his mother said.

Under his bed, he had piles of notebooks filled with stories from the Enchanted Forest - a whole world that no one knew existed, except for him. He let his mother in, just a little, but he wasn't ready to share the depths he had taken it to - not until it was perfect.

And especially not since he'd recently written himself and his mother into the story.

Henry smiled to himself as he finished the chapter, but his smile quickly faded as he closed the notebook and left the Enchanted Forest, and was once again sitting in his bed in their tiny apartment above the noisy street. Here, life wasn't such an adventure - at least not the kind he craved in the fairy tale world he'd concocted.

As he tucked his notebook under his pillow and clicked the flashlight off, Henry made the same wish he made every night: that tomorrow a miracle would happen.