Ian: "What'd I miss, with Mom?"
Lip: "Well. You know how Dad's a total fucking asshole? Turns out he's the good one."
Bob's stance is that, even though it sucks that Frank lured them back there to pull off a con, they'll cooperate if he gives them Liam. Something about black kids needing black parents because of a cultural backlash against Madonna and Malawi or something.
Monica: "Roberta and I want to start a family of our own.
Fiona: "How about you finish this one first? You don't get to abandon your kids and then show up one day to take your pick of the litter.
Frank: "Now, that's not fair. Your mother's made mistakes, but she's here now. That's got to count for something."
(Oh, yes he did.)
Fiona explains at length how this is certainly not about Frank in any way; how this is actually about Monica, but not really about her either. Negative space; crimson wolves.
"This is about what you didn't do. It's about what I did. And you know what? I did a fucking great job. Debbie is Class President. She's on the Debate team, going to Nationals. And Lip, he's top of his class. He set the curve. Ian was promoted in ROTC, and he tested out of English. And Carl made something blow up for his science fair."
All the facts and figures of her little life, the things that were so necessary she couldn't even see them, until now, as anything to be proud of. They whirl, she almost breaks. The house, the family, the life Fiona built. The world she got forced into constructing and maintaining, until it almost killed her. Until she looked love in the eye and very nearly said, "Fuck you."
Fiona: "Liam doesn't even know who you are."
Monica: "I'm his mother!"
Fiona: "You were my mother."
Very close to shattering. Tell me to stop and I'll stop.
Monica, canny, goes to the youngest, the weakest links, Carl and Debbie, looking them in the eye. He twiddles his thumbs, she burns. Monica looks into their eyes, climbs onto their backs, runs her nails down their faces.
Monica: "Debbie and Carl, I am so sorry if I hurt you. I love you so much. Please, let me be your Mommy again..."
They fold into her hug, ungainly and unsure. Responding not to her now, on this couch in this strange house, but to a voice they can barely remember. They don't mean it, they're unsure, but the atmosphere is untenable and they can just about hear her, long ago; they can just about hear her, promising it's going to be okay.