Edna did not get home until after dark; the boys were already in bed. Ned was waiting for her in the living room. He could tell she looked like she had had a rough day.

"Where have you been, Edna?" he asked calmly, standing up and walking over to his wife.

"With Seymour. Oh, Ned, his mother had been sick, and she died right before our eyes. It's been a very stressful day."

"Oh, that's too bad. It's hard to lose someone you're so close to . . ." He looked down, silently mourning Maude. Everyone knew how close Skinner was to his mother. It was going to be hard on him.

Edna nodded and kissed Ned's cheek. Ned spoke again, gently. "I don't want to sound like a nag, but was it really your place to be there today, Edna?"

Edna pursed her lips, a bit offended. "Firstly, he asked me. No, his mother did. She had wanted to speak with me. Secondly, I am all that poor man has left."

"But he doesn't have you . . ."

"Ned, I am one of Seymour's employees, and he has a friend in me."

Ned smiled. "You're right. I'm sorry. I was just being . . ."

"Jealous?"

Ned gasped. "Was I? Oh no . . ." He frowned. "I'm going to have to pray extra hard tonight."

"Don't worry so much, Ned. I'm going to bed, okay?" It was only eight, but she really needed some rest.

"Alright, darlin'," Ned pecked the woman's cheek and held her close.

Edna touched her nose to his cheek and held there a few moments before sighing and heading to their bedroom.

Despite what Bart thought, "Ol' Flanders" had, too, been noticing Edna. He had not been aware of her crying, but he could tell something was wrong. Obviously now she had Agnes's death and the stress of the day toiling on her, but this had been going on for a while; he had noticed Edna did not seem exactly happy, and that killed him inside.

Ever since Maude had died, Ned had wanted someone to love him again, to keep him company. He never expected that person to take Maude's place because no one could ever replace her, not as his wife or his kids' mother.

As much as Edna differed from Maude, there was much more to her than the surface showed—how the town viewed her. Ned had taken the time to really get to know her and grew to really care for her. He wanted to help her, but he was scared to ask her what was wrong. He was worried about what the answer would be.

At Agnes's funeral, Seymour insisted he talk instead of the reverend, who pursed his lips and sat down.

"Most of you probably remember my mother as a cranky, old, hateful woman who appeared to hate her son . . . and that was a big part of who she was . . . but there was more."

He spoke for what seemed like hours. The story of Agnes's life as told by Seymour was interesting enough, but after telling that, he just started rambling about his experiences with his mother, ending up sobbing beside her coffin. While it helped him to talk about everything, it was boring everyone there.

"Alright . . . I'm going to assume no one else wants to speak," Reverend Lovejoy stood up, hoping his assumption was correct.

"I think her son should get a chance to speak."

"He just did. Where were you?" The reverend rolled his eyes impatiently.

"I mean her real son," Sergeant Skinner stood up.

Seymour got back up, wheeling around. "What would you have to say? You don't even know her. You're probably only here because you think you're getting inheritance. Well, sorry to say, I'm getting most of her possessions."

"I just came to give my respects to my mother," the sergeant replied calmly.

"Oh?"

"But why do you get everything? I'm her real son!"

"I'm her real son. Just because she physically had you does not make you more her son than I. I have been her son longer, and she likes me. She doesn't like you. That should've been clear enough the last time you were in Springfield."

"This is highly irregular, Seymour. This is not the way you speak to your sergeant."

"We're not in the army anymore, Sergeant. You have no place here."

"Well, he is her son," Reverend Lovejoy pointed out.

"He's not her son," Seymour said through clenched teeth.

"Okay," Tim replied and sighed, keeping silent.

"Tamzarian, you are not Agnes Skinner's legal son. You are an orphan."

"Armin Tamzarian is dead. I am and always will be Seymour Skinner."

"Name aside, I am her real son so I suggest you hand over my mother's possessions."

"Her will is clear."

"She was an old woman; she probably got mixed up."

"Don't talk about Mother that way!" Seymour lunged at the sergeant.

"Um . . . "Reverend Lovejoy stood as the two men start fist fighting. "I declare this funeral over."

People responded by awkwardly leaving the cemetery. Edna was a bit reluctant, watching the two men with wide eyes before Ned told her to come along as he was covering his boys' eyes.

Edna was preparing dinner for the family the next evening. Neither she or Seymour had said anything about or even acknowledged the other evening. Edna figured it was best to pretend it did not happen. It had meant nothing, after all, right?

"Mom, why are you making so much food?" Rod asked, noticing there was more food than usual.

"I'm going to take some over to Principal Skinner."

"Why?" Rod asked, his arms crossed.

Edna bent down to his level and smiled a little. "Because he lost his mother. He needs a little help right now. You understand that, don't you?"

Rod nodded silently, and his little brother clung to him with a frown. He took his hand and led him to the other room to comfort him.

Edna sighed a little and put aside extra food for Seymour in a container. As she was headed out the door, Ned was coming in from work.

He chuckled a little. "Where are you going?"

"I'm running some food to Seymour's. I'll be back soon."

"That's kind of you," Ned smiled. "Don't be too long!"

Edna did not think the trip would take long, but upon finding the shape Seymour was in, she realized she would be there a bit longer than anticipated.

Seymour was lying on his couch, with a black eye from the day before, a bottle in one hand, and a photo of his mother in the other.

His house was a mess—empty beer bottles lying around, dirty laundry strewn everywhere.

"My God, it's like I'm looking in a mirror of my past," she muttered to herself.

"Edna?" Seymour looked up.

She walked over and took the bottle away from him, setting it aside. "Seymour, look at you."

"I know," he sighed.

"I brought you some dinner."

"You didn't have to do that."

"Clearly I did . . ." She looked around. "Go take a shower, Seymour. I'll fix your food for you."

He smiled a little and nodded before pulling himself off the couch. While Seymour was showering, Edna helped herself to some cleaning—at least picking up some of the things strewn around carelessly.

As Seymour started to eat, he thanked her. "It's delicious. Much better than your TV dinners," he joked.

Edna rolled her eyes. "Thanks."

"I'm sorry the house is such a mess." He held an ice pack she had fixed him to his eye.

"It's alright. I understand."

"I'm just such a wreck. I don't know what to do. I have nothing going for me."

"Seymour, you may have lost your mother, but you're still Seymour Skinner, principal of Springfield Elementary School, and you're darn good at it, too."

"You think so?"

"That school is a dump, but you manage to keep it running. That says something."

He smiled a little. She looked at the clock. "I have to go. I promised I'd be right back." Seeing his face fall, she found herself saying, "I'll be back tomorrow."

Ned was starting to get a little annoyed that Edna went to Seymour's every evening; she seemed to come home later and later, too.

"Edna," he touched her shoulder as she was leaving one evening. "I think what you're doing is very kind, and I'm proud of you, but don't you think you should stop soon?"

"Excuse me? Ned, his mother just died!"

"I realize that, darlin', but there's other women in this town that can help out. I bet Mrs. Lovejoy would be happy to help organize a system or something."

"No, that isn't necessary. I can do this on my own."

She turned and left before she could hear Ned reply quietly, "Yes but . . . I miss you."

"Seymour, how do you live in this filth?" Edna asked. She felt funny asking that because her own apartment often used to look the same way. When Seymour shrugged, Edna rolled her eyes and started cleaning.

She rushed around, throwing away bottles, picking up laundry and dishes. "Are you just going to lay there, Seymour?" she looked at the man, who was lying on the couch, watching a game. When he did not respond, she huffed and wheeled around to go back in the kitchen.

"Could you bring me a beer?" he asked.

"You're joking, right?!" Edna stormed back into the living room, a bit enraged, tripping and landing on the couch—more specifically, on top of Seymour.

"I'm sorry," he said sheepishly.

"No . . . I'm sorry," she whispered. The look on Seymour's face was genuinely apologetic. He looked pitiful again. The pity she felt for him combined with the feeling she felt being so close to him was getting to her again. She found herself touching her lips to his own in another forbidden kiss, her fingers running through his hair. When his hands slipped under her shirt, she froze. "No," she whispered and got up from the couch, walking away, her heart pounding like mad.

Seymour sighed. What was going on? He knew he should not be wanting her like this, but she was not helping. The next thing he knew, her body was pressed close to his, and she was whispering the exact opposite of what she had just said into his ear. "Yes . . ."

"Yes?"

Edna merely nodded in response as she started loosening the principal's tie, and off they went again to the garden of earthly delights.

At some point during their love making, Edna had gotten annoyed with her wedding ring and shed herself of it, setting it aside.

Once again, after they were finished, not a word was said. Edna merely got dressed and continued on with her cleaning. She peeked in Seymour's bedroom and called back, "Do you ever clean your room!?" It looked worse than the rest of the house.

"If I am promised a treat!" he called back.

Edna could not tell if he was joking or not, but she feared he was not. "Get in there and clean your room right now!" He needed to do something himself and maybe yelling like Agnes would do the trick.

"That works, too," Seymour muttered, jumping up. "Yes, Mother!" he said by habit.

"I'm not your mother."

"Sorry. Yes, dear."

"I'm not your 'dear', either!"

"Then what are you?" he raised an eye.

Edna blushed. As Seymour went to his bedroom, she turned and peered at her reflection in the mirror, seeing her disheveled hair and crooked top. "Yes, what am I?" she whispered to herself. Shaking her head to clear it, she grabbed her purse and left without a word. Her wedding ring lay forgotten on the coffee table.