Disclaimer: I don't own them.

Author's Note: I know I should be working on The Storybrooke Connection but this story popped back up from its hiding place and refused to let go. Not sure how regular updates will be but I'll try my best.

Prologue

In the beginning, nobody even noticed.

Emma sure as hell didn't.

After their return from Neverland she was too busy settling back into whatever accounted for normal life in Storybrooke to wonder what that hollow feeling in her chest was. She spent her days at the Sheriff's Office or helping Snow and David move into their new house, and her evenings with Henry while fending off her parents' continued attempts to set her up with the newly revived Neal. Her nights were spent alone, tossing and turning, as she kept wondering why she was feeling like something was missing when everything should have been great now.

It took five days for her to realize just what that constant ache was, to see that the thing she was missing was about 5'6" and distinctly Regina-shaped. The morning of her realization she sat up in bed, torn from sleep by her heart burning with both want and shame. When had that happened? When had she started to miss Regina? And how had she missed the fact that the other woman hadn't even called? Not her, and not Henry either as far as she knew. Since when did Regina ignore Henry for more than a few hours?

"Kid?" she asked that morning over a bowl of cereal she wasn't really interested in. Henry stopped chewing, looking guilty, and Emma instantly wondered what he was trying to hide. But she ignored the feeling and asked what she really wanted to know. "Do you know why your mom didn't come to our welcome back dinner on Thursday?"

Henry scrunched up his face and shook his head. "Nope." His spoon splashed a little milk on the table when it dropped back into his bowl. He had that guilty look again.

"Fess up, kid," Emma said, suddenly anxious. "What's going on?"

"Not sure," her son mumbled. "I think she might have left a note for me."

Emma sat up straight. "She might have?" Sometimes she just wanted to shake Henry. "Did she or didn't she? What did it say?"

Henry blushed. "Don't know," he replied quietly.

Emma closed her eyes. "Why not?"

"I didn't read it?" It came out sounding like a question. He could see the storm clouds in his mother's eyes and continued rapidly. "I was so busy with school and with learning to use my sword, and I spent time with Dad now that he's back alive and …"

"And you forgot that you had a mother?" Emma's voice was sharper than he had heard in a while.

"No," Henry said softly, and he hadn't. "I just didn't have time to miss her." He met Emma's eyes. "It's not like you missed her either," he accused defensively.

Emma shook her head, knowing that Henry would interpret her reaction differently from what she wanted to express. You have no idea, kid. I just didn't know. "What did you do with that note?" If you say you threw it away, I might …

"It's upstairs, in my school bag."

"You've been carrying it around with you, but you never got around to reading it?" Emma was baffled.

Henry scrunched up his face in a move that was so much like Regina that Emma's heart clenched painfully in her chest. "I was scared," he finally admitted.

"You were scared of your mom? The mom who almost sacrificed her own life to save yours?" And mine.

Henry shook his head. "I have a bad feeling about it … like I didn't want to know what it said," he tried to explain. "Like when you know you messed up and your teacher gives back the test results and you really don't want to know? So you can continue to imagine everything's fine …"

"Yeah, I know the feeling," Emma said softly. Last time I had it I found out I was pregnant with you. "And I need to know if you were right, because I haven't seen Regina since we came back from Neverland, and I'm getting worried."

Henry's eyes grew big. "Do you think …?" He couldn't finish his thought.

"I don't know," Emma said around a sigh. "Why don't you get the note from upstairs?"

Henry ran off in a flash, and Emma watched him leave, trying not to imagine all the things the note could say.