The backyard is quiet now. Most of the Oceanside crew has trickled out, the last of the beer bottles and paper plates abandoned on the patio table. You're stacking them idly, glancing occasionally at Addison, who's been sitting on the edge of a chaise lounge for the past ten minutes, wine glass untouched in her hand.

"She’s watching us from the window again," Addison mutters, not even turning her head.

You glance up. There she is — Bizzy Montgomery, framed in the glow of the kitchen lights. Arms crossed. Stern expression. Judging.

"She’s got nerve," you say, tone light.

Addison snorts, then stares down into her wine. "She said I was selfish. For not giving her grandchildren. For not living in Connecticut. For not marrying someone like Derek again." Her mouth twists, humorless. “She basically told me I’m broken.”

You ease down into the chair next to hers but don’t speak yet. Just listen. She rarely lets herself be this raw, not with you—not with anyone, really.

“They weren’t always like this,” she says after a long pause. “I mean, they were… cold. But there was a time when I didn’t flinch every time I heard my mother’s voice. There was a time when I thought she loved me.”

You don't know what to say to that. You offer your wine glass to her instead. She takes it, sets hers down, and drinks yours in one gulp. Her hands are trembling.

“Sometimes I think about who I’d be if I didn’t come from them,” she murmurs. “And it scares me that I can’t imagine it.”

"You know," you say, quiet, "you're nothing like them."

Addison laughs under her breath — but there's no humour in it. Just something tired and heavy. She sets the glass down and leans her head back, eyes toward the sky.

“Tell that to the woman who just called her daughter a failure because she treats babies instead of having one.”