The first words out of her mouth and already she lies. Emma sighs as she struggles to bring the words to the forefront, her memories vague, but moments and pieces so vivid.

"No, I hardly think about it anymore."

"I see. Tell me what you remember feeling then. Tell me what it was like to find out you were pregnant while in jail," Dr. Hopper reclines slightly and clicks his pen for note taking.

"I…was scared at first, but I dealt okay," Emma comes closer to the truth this time, but she still only grazes the surface.

To admit it out loud and to face her anger head on will probably take more than one 30 minute session. It's been over 10 years now, and the rage has never really cooled. She wants to speak about her feelings, but when she tries she comes up empty. Her body so trained at concealing and deflecting by necessity that she can no longer will herself to open voluntarily.

If she could she'd speak about her mistrust of people, especially the man she put herself on the line for, and believed she loved. The man, who had played her naivety, scourged her love and let her take the fall for his crime. She'd reiterate she knew she wasn't blameless. She'd take her share of the responsibility. She'd speak about how in the beginning she thought the nausea was due to the stress of prison life. Then she'd tell about the panic and helplessness at the realization she was late. The numb get-the-fuck-ahold-of-yourself feeling she experienced when she saw the little blue plus sign. Congratulations. She'd stared at that stick until her vision blurred and her eyes burned.

If she could share her thoughts freely like a normal, mentally balanced, and well-adjusted adult, she'd share how everything fluctuated daily. At once she felt alone, but with the life growing inside her she felt not so alone at times. The baby was a reminder of Neal, and because she loved him the idea that she had a part of him was a small comfort, but because he hurt her, the baby was also a cursed reminder of the why she was in this situation to begin with.

Archie shakes his head once and leans forward silently asking for more elaboration. He only sees her blank and placid gaze. Emma opens her mouth, but snaps it shut just as quickly her chin crinkles when she looks down at her hands.

She wants to speak about the utter humiliation of giving birth in prison. Shipped out to the hospital, hands and legs shackled, waves of squeezing pain doubling her over. She had been surrounded by complete strangers. She was always with strangers. Never having had true family she'd never known the incomparable comfort and peace of a special shared event filled with love and promises that would be kept. Emma realized that when the baby was presented to her was the moment she closed off completely. She didn't touch him or hold him or tell him she loved him. She couldn't find the words to voice her feelings then, and she'd never found them since.

Emma picks at the stitching on the couch, and Archie clears his throat to signal that time is up when he senses that he will not be hearing anything more on the matter today. Emma rises from her seat and looks to the door. She pauses mid-stride and turns around, shoving fidgety hands into tight pockets. She shuffles from foot to foot.

"I want to do this. I want to try and help Henry with everything. I just need…time," Emma only tells a half-lie. Time won't make a difference, but she honestly doesn't know what she needs.