Maxwell moved around the house in a fog. His mind rewound and replayed the previous day's events like videotape. Each word and gesture sliced painfully into his soul.

Five years. Five years for him to tell Fran how he felt about her, from the moment she stepped through his door and into his life. Five years of the most tumultuous time in his existence.

He cherished the ride of how he ended up marrying a woman he loved and adored. And now he seemed to be on the brink of losing it all.

Maxwell made his way to the kitchen. His stomach grumbled, demanding to be fed. He pushed the door open and found Jonah sitting at the table. Watching his youngest son grow up, Maxwell had been amazed that Jonah, not Eve as he always assumed, was a perfect copy of Fran.

"Hey dad." Jonah watched his father stare into the refrigerator. "Do you want something to eat?"

"I could do with a nosh since I missed breakfast." He walked over to his father but Maxwell shooed him away. "I'm not bloody helpless Jonah. I know how to make a sandwich."

"Dad, we want to talk to you."

Before Maxwell could respond, Eve, Grace, Brighton, and Maggie entered the kitchen. He looked at his children. Eyeing them curiously, he asked, "What do you want to talk to me about?"

"Mom," Jonah replied.

"This is none of your concern."

"Yes it is dad," Brighton said.

"Look daddy, we know you two had a fight last night," Maggie said.

"And we know she's staying at a hotel," Grace added.

Eve moved hesitantly toward her father. "We want you two to make up."

"Look, there are certain things you don't understand," Maxwell replied.

"You know dad," Brighton said, "that's always been your problem."

Maxwell dropped the knife on the countertop. "What has always been my problem Brighton?"

Ignoring his father's indignant tone, Brighton continued. "You've always underestimated us just like you've always underestimated mom."

"You don't give mom credit," Jonah said. "She's a lot wiser and a lot smarter than you think. Mom would never do anything that would harm you or cause you pain."

"Now wait just a minute. I do not appreciate what you all are saying. I do not underestimate your mother. I know she's a very intuitive and intelligent woman."

Maggie looked at her father. "You say it, but do you honestly mean it?"

"Margaret!"

"I'm sorry daddy but sometimes you talk down to mom instead of talking to her."

"Daddy," Grace began, "I feel safe in speaking for my sisters and brothers when I tell you to stop acting like a putz and bring our mother home!"

He folded his arms across his chest but his withering stare did not intimate Grace.

"All right, that does it! I have heard quite enough from the five of you. I will not allow my own children to bully me! Your mother and I will work out our problems on our own, without any interference from any of you. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

They all filed solemnly out of the room. As Maxwell set the leftovers on the countertop, he was shocked to find Maggie still in the kitchen.

"There will be no further discussion regarding the situation between your mother and myself Margaret."

"Fine but I'm going to tell you what I have to say whether you want to hear it or not." She took a deep breath and continued. "I know we can't make you do anything you don't want to but daddy, we need Fran just as much as you do. Jonah and Eve are fortunate that they don't know what its like not to have a mother in their lives. I mean she's our mother too but Grace, Brighton, and I remember what it was like not having a mom for a long time."

"Margaret, you don't -"

"Please daddy, let me finish. Fran changed us. She changed you. What I don't understand is why you lose track of that sometimes. Don't get me wrong. I loved - I love my real mom. But I love Fran too." She moved toward the door. "Whatever you need to do to rectify this problem, do it as soon as possible. We want our mother back home."

He stood for a long time, staring at the empty space where his eldest child stood. His mind was still reeling from the confrontation with his children. Picking up his sandwich, Maxwell had no desire for food. He left the sandwich on the counter and headed back to the safety of his bedroom.

Fran lay in bed; her bloodshot eyes stared at the ceiling. She hadn't gotten much sleep after her phone call to Maxwell. She remembered the wounded pleading sound in his voice.

It pained her knowing she was hurting him. Maybe leaving wasn't the adult thing to do but she had to get away from him as soon as she possibly could.

Fran was pretty sure everyone heard them argue. Her heart ached at the thought of not being there for her family. They needed her. She needed them. But Fran needed time to sort things out before she confronted Maxwell. What she really needed was someone to talk to.

Niles was in California. Fred and Val were in Florida and her parents were in Israel. The one other person she'd talk to when she wanted advice was the person she needed to talk about. Thoughts about contacting Joanna sprang to mind but Fran dismissed the notion. This was something she had to work out on her own.

She had to get out of bed. She couldn't continue to lie there all day and sink further into a depression. Yet she couldn't move. Before she knew it, tears spilled across her cheeks. A pang of misery and loneliness curled and settled in her stomach. Fran drew herself into a fetal position and let her emotions flow.

Darkness sheathed the room when Fran woke up a few hours later. She turned over to look at the clock and was shocked to discover how late it actually was. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she shuffled toward the bathroom.

Flipping on the light switch, Fran gasped at her reflection. Oy, I'm a mess! My eyes are puffy and my hair looks like I've been shocked by electricity.

Steam filled the bathroom as Fran stepped under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over her body. She felt the stress of yesterday's events melt from her as she shampooed her hair. What is it about washing your hair that releases stress, she wondered.

Slipping into a clean robe, Fran made her way to the bed. Her mind and body felt cleansed and renewed. Her stomach rumbled loudly, reminding Fran that she had not eaten since yesterday morning. She giggled at the thought that if her mother knew, Sylvia would accuse her of completely turning into a shiksa.

In the middle of drying her hair, Fran realized that the only clothes and personal items she had with her was what she wore yesterday when she came to the hotel.

Either Fran would have to call home and ask someone to bring her a change of clothes or she would have to rinse out a few things and order room service. Before she really thought about her options, Fran dialed the number to the townhouse.

Making her way down the hallway, Thelma shifted the overnight bag between her left and right hand. She ticked the room numbers off in her head until she found Fran's door. Taking a deep breath, Thelma raised her hand and lightly tapped on the door.

"I really appreciate you bringing me a few things," Fran said when Thelma entered the room.

"You're welcome Mrs. Sheffield. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, thank you." As Thelma reached for the doorknob, Fran said, "Don't go yet. Give me a few minutes and I'll walk out with you."

As Fran entered the bathroom, Thelma unbuttoned her coat and laid it across the chair. She stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. By the time Fran emerged from the bathroom, Thelma had neatly restored the room.

"Thelma, you didn't have to clean up my room. It's not that I don't appreciate what you've done but it wasn't necessary."

"I know Mrs. Sheffield. I needed something to keep me busy while I waited for you. And I didn't really want to watch television." Reaching for her coat, Thelma said, "I'm ready when you are."

Fran and Thelma walked down the corridor in silence. They boarded the elevator, stepping to the rear of the car.

"Thank you again Thelma. For everything you've done for me."

"There's no need to thank me. I'm happy to oblige." Glancing at the numbers indicating the elevator's descent, Thelma turned to Fran. "Mrs. Sheffield, there's something I need to tell you. We will not be alone when we enter the lobby."

Fran looked up and realized they were a few stops away from the lobby. "Who's waiting for me? Is it Maxwell?"

"I'm not a liberty to say. Please don't be angry with me." As they stepped off the elevator, Thelma turned and smiled at Fran. She gave Fran's arm a light sympathetic squeeze. "Good night Mrs. Sheffield."

Fran drew in a deep breath. Her stomach knotted up at the thought of confronting Maxwell. Biting her lower lip, she couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she was about to face a firing squad.

She closed her eyes, attempting to fortify her resolve. I can't do this, Fran thought as she opened her eyes. I can't see him. I'm going back upstairs. She started toward the bank of elevators when a familiar voice stopped her.