Yay! More angst for y'all, and more MitM fanfiction as well! I had a lot of fun with my last one-shot, so I decided to write a second one!

That, and this was a bit of an vent fic—at least, that's how it started—but it took on a life of its own, as you'll see. I often find channeling pent up emotions into a character helps me blow off steam. And this character was the perfect fit….

Ah yes, there are a few past episodes mentioned in here:

--Softball

--Hal's birthday

--The baby (part two)

The rest well, are just well drawn conclusions…..

Ah yes; I'm not entirely sure where this takes place—probably in season five.

Enjoy!

Figures she'd do this to me. Again. I don't know why I expected any different. Getting my hopes up like I did, what was I thinking? Haven't I learned anything at all? Ha. Like I really need to answer that. Of course I should have known better; luck has a way of chewing me up and spitting me out like an old wad of gum. I guess….I dunno. I guess this time, I wanted to believe things would be different. I wanted to believe she'd come through for me. Wanted to believe something right would happen in my life for a change.

Yeah. Sure. Excellent idea.

She even pulled the whole 'You're not doing anything I tell you even though I remind you over and over and'….oh my gosh she's a damned broken record! And she's speaking complete bull. I'm not doing anything? Excuse me? Where the hell has she been for the last….forever! Okay I'll admit, maybe a part of me could be busting my ass even more so than I already am, but it's not like I'm a complete—no wait….she thinks I'm lazy, too. And not committed. And she won't stop reminding me how I screwed myself over in high school! Um….reality check: the past is the past and we can't change it! Nothing more to do but move on and look towards the future. But, you know, it wouldn't be mom if she didn't ride my ass until it's raw and crush my self-esteem.

Again.

And she wonders why I have no confidence. Why none of us do. Well, maybe if she bothered to psycho-analyze herself, she'd see she's the whole damn problem! Or at least, one cause of it. Yelling, screaming, kicking us out: what's that gonna accomplish? Does she think it'll teach any of us a lesson?

She must….even though it's pretty obvious that it isn't going to—nor will it ever—work. Just fuels the rage buried within us and extinguishes any hope we've had of a parent-child relationship.

That's how I feel about it anyway. Not sure about the others. But there's no way in hell I'd ever give her the satisfaction of seeing me break. Not unless I wanted something out of it—which, at the present moment in time, I don't. If that means locking myself in my room, for an hour or two, suffocated by my own feelings and that horrible pain in my heart then fine. I will not give into her games. I'm better than that. Stronger than that.

But….dammit.

I never wanted this! To go toe to toe with my own mother….all the time….walking on eggshells whenever we get together….the woman's a time bomb of fury and the rapidly approaching menopause. Any and everything you could possibly imagine sends her flying off the handle.

And my father does nothing to help! When he's with mom, her will's THE will. No way around it. He's like a mindless puppet. It's only when she's not around does he show us….me….any gratification other than a feeble nod and a "yes dear, you're right, of course."

Drives me crazy….but I really shouldn't be surprised. See, just like the rest of them, he's trying to keep the peace. Stay on her good side, because he's afraid. My father—afraid of my mother. Does that sound like a normal, functional family to you?

Ha. Ha. I don't think so.

And my brothers said they envied my moving out—that they couldn't wait to be out on their own, away from all this.

They think it'll grant them freedom.

Ooookay. Right. Keep telling yourselves that. I'm not free. Not even close. Sure, I may not be in direct contact with her….but every phone call, every Christmas card, every damn visit brings with it a living nightmare for me, and any and everyone who's on my side.

No matter how old I get, or what I make of myself—it all comes back to me being the problem child. The one she hates. The one she—for some unexplained reason—expects to screw up. Expects to make a fool of himself. Expects to disappoint her.

I'm the oldest of five: I've traveled the country, have experience in all sorts of….interesting….fields….I'm even married!

But does she care? Does she really REALLY give a damn about my accomplishments?

Hell no.

I never receive praise from her. All I get is a lecture about how somewhere along the way, something went wrong with me. That she failed as a mother just because I'm happy with second be—no.

Just because I'm happy, end of it.

It's like she's programmed to think I'll be a delinquent forever.

I know I'm not a genius. I know I'm not stupid. And I know I'm not under twelve. In her eyes, I've got no justification for my actions. No damn reason at all for being a failure.

However….she is partially right. It is her fault I'm the way I am.

The way I meet her head on, glare for glare, scream for scream. The way I choose to stick up for my brothers, left helplessly in her merciless clutches.

The way I used to break the law.

The way I used to drink.

And the way I still….on a really bad day….cry myself to sleep.

It's not like I haven't told her, you know. I've tried. I've tried to drill it in her head that this 'screw up' as she calls me isn't just looking for trouble.

He's looking for something he's never had, and he's pretty damn sure he'll never get.

….Do you know she's only ever told me she was proud of me once? One time! And it wasn't even for something I did for my own benefit.

What kind of mother does that?

Okay, I get it—I helped bring my brother into the world; whoop-dee-do. You wanna try acknowledging everything else I've done, mom?

The money I've sent home, for example. Did I ever get a 'I'm so proud you've turned yourself around' from her?

I don't think so!

And forget the whole marriage thing. That was a disaster.

….My point is, I've never gotten any acknowledgement from her, unless it was helping her.

I'm the same level as an average house maid.

I get no thanks, no acceptance....and no love.

No matter how much I've changed….no matter how hard I've tried….

To my mother, I'm always going to be 'Francis: the problem child.'

That old, chewed, wad of gum; trampled again and again by her overbearing sneaker, until I'm scraped from its sole and effortlessly tossed aside.

Completely disregarded.

Completely forgotten.

Like I said….conclusions….it started in my voice and then I went back and made it in Francis'. Somehow, after watching a few episodes, I couldn't help but notice how adamant he was about blaming everything on his mother….so I started to wonder if maybe there was more to it than meets the eye.

You know, that, and I was bored/mad/addicted to angst.

I dunno, it's a possibility. Maybe.

Good? Bad? Angsty? Overdone?

Let me know!