Author's Notes: This fic includes the topic of depression, but also plenty of fluff, humor, parenthood, and sexy times…and frankly a much more in-character Addison than what we were served in her guest spots in season 18 (especially the latter two episodes). But, most importantly, it features healing and an exploration of grief, loss, and unresolved trauma that Addison did not really get (or perhaps work for) in her previous experience with therapy. I have done my best—influenced by my profession, and also personal experiences—to be realistic about the above topics, but to also treat them with the sensitivity and respect they deserve.

This fic came about because of things that caused me to raise my eyebrows, feel disheartened over, or rail about on Twitter, because of what transpired in 18x04: 1) Depression and not wanting to wake up—passive suicidal ideation—was deemed by Addison to be a "slight mental health crisis," as though it was a lol moment, when really, what she was expressing went so far beyond a jokey little throwaway line. I understand there are time constraints with shows, but to leave it up in the air like that (did she get help, and if yes, what did that help look like? Was she able to get her alcohol consumption under control? Did she tell Jake was what going on? What made her turn the car around?), and to also address it in the way the show did is such a disservice to those who have experienced—or are currently experiencing—depression, anxiety, trauma, or any mental disorder. 2) Addison seemed to imply she might not have been working during the pandemic, which was weird? 3) She really didn't have much communication with Amelia prior to coming to Seattle: "I heard. I prayed." Girl, why wouldn't Amelia have been the one to tell you about Meredith? Even if someone else—Richard?—had told Addison, this subject would have still come up with Amelia if they talked consistently. Also lol your repressed WASP ass suddenly embraced praying? 4) Addison said her medical trial was the reason she wanted to get out of bed in the morning…also deeply concerning (see point 1). 5) She very much disliked her husband and son during lockdown, at least for a period of time—the former being someone who would have been so supportive of any struggles and mental distress she was facing. 6) She let her 8-year-old watch Game of Thrones—or stream, since the show was already off the air by then, so idk what was left to debate about it? And possibly have unlimited video game time, too. 7) She wanted to leave—and almost did leave—the life she fought so damn hard to have. 8) "I hate that for you" is the lamest response I've ever heard, regardless of what your friendship/sisterhood is like.

Whew. Also, I said "during" in this note, but unlike on Grey's, the pandemic is not over. Please be careful out there, both for yourself, and for others. There are a few things I will adjust timeline-wise as I get closer to the end of the fic (I will mention those things when it gets to that point), but I have written about 2020 as accurately as I can. I also hope that you'll ask for help if you're struggling with depression. I will make sure to include any content warnings ahead of each chapter. The first chapter sort of "sets the table," and then it gets a bit more raw after that. This fic is about 80% written (first 9 chapters are done), and should wind up being 11 or 12 chapters. I occasionally share sneak peeks on Twitter (same username as here), so feel free to follow me there, if that's your thing. You can expect weekly or bimonthly updates. I hope you'll give this work a chance, and I hope you'll let me know if you like it.

The title of this fic is from an Emily Dickinson poem: "There's a certain Slant of light." Each chapter title—because I leaned in hard with the depression theme, I guess—is also credited to Ms. Dickinson, with the individual titles ranging from a poem, a specific line from a poem, or from her personal correspondence. I'll credit each chapter title in the end notes.

Lastly, because I hate that FF doesn't let you tag in the way that AO3 does, here are some of my more specific tags that you can either read or blow right past in order to get to the fic itself: sometimes very sad but also cute and fluffy and funny, the world needs more henry fics, frankly the world also needs more jaddison filth, jaddison but also saddison, includes PP characters, plenty of savvy, mentions of derek and mark, archer being archer, some bizzy and the captain mentions, some amelia and meredith updates, jake would have treated addison like a damn queen if she was depressed, in which angela has an age-appropriate boyfriend, darlingwrecks loves baseball, darlingwrecks loves a good therapist, zoom school, a two hour drive in which addison probably only moved like 45 minutes, santa monica is not los angeles, does addison ever meet scout, a montgomery would never say the word stinkin, a montgomery would never hit medical equipment in the OR, a montgomery would never rock back and forth in a chair like a manic person, a montgomery would never have that many ear piercings, kate really do be forgetting addison's voice and mannerisms, thanks to those on twitter who continue to indulge my bullshit, did addison find a personal lord and savior or was zero research done about her character prior to bringing her back, henry wanted jon on the throne and jake was pulling for daenerys or sansa, still ridiculously mad about the inaccuracy of henry's adoption finalization, and his unsafe sleep environment, don't talk about your traumatic experiences in therapy but by all means talk about what someone does with their tongue, significant research about model trains was conducted in the writing of this fic and i hate myself for that, yes conducted was a pun, I swear zoloft is not paying me to promote their product, wine consumption is not a personality trait, like a tic and I hate that for you still haunt me, why does the layout of addison's house make no sense, better therapy than the first time around, depression, anxiety, pandemic, unresolved trauma

Chapter 1: Older with years, but newer every day

December 2019

"I'm just making sure…" Addison nudges at the edge of a picture on the coffee table. "This is the one you want, right?" She is pleased that of the two current contenders for the "Star of the Week" page Henry is working on, the picture she is pointing to is the one her son has expressed the most interest in. She likes the shot of Henry at a Dodgers game in front of the Jackie Robinson statue just fine, but the other picture just offers so much more of him. This one was taken a few months ago, and although it seems like Henry is growing so quickly these days, everything in this close-up still accurately reflects who he is. Addison pours over all the sweet details that make Henry Henry: his large eyes, the dusky eyelashes that skim his cheekbones when he is asleep, the easy slash of his smile, and the pattern and direction of his soft curls.

"Yeah, that one." The reality is even better than the picture, and after Henry responds, Addison watches as he takes a careful sip of his hot chocolate, almost more whipped cream than chocolate at this point. Drinking hot chocolate has become an every-day-in-December occurrence, and she suspects finishing homework in the living room instead of in one of the wingback chairs at the table where meals are eaten and homework normally gets done will also become an everyday tradition this time of year. Hunching over the coffee table is not particularly comfortable (she is pretty sure her husband feels the same way), but she can understand the appeal of this set-up for Henry. The living room both looks and feels like Christmas right now. Some of the decorations are Rockwell-perfect, but there are also cheerful, low-maintenance details—like the handmade ornaments, and the red and green construction paper chain—which make it clear a much-adored child lives here. The Christmas tree is nestled in the corner of the room, and on the other side of the glass, sand that Henry tracked onto the patio is dusted along the tile squares.

The juxtaposition of glossy pine needles against the stretch of beach no longer feels foreign to Addison. Once upon a time—even though she knew leaving Seattle and starting over in every sense of the word, in as different a place as she could find, was the right decision—she did not truly believe she could ever appreciate a Christmas with sunshine instead of snow. But, it turns out, as long as you have the right people, the holidays are beautiful anywhere. She and Jake have taken Henry to Big Bear a few times so that he can have some experience with a "true winter," but nothing is better than Christmas here, in this home.

"Great." Addison does a quick scan of Henry's paper when he lifts his pencil again. He still needs to write out answers to the questions he claims are "the longer ones," but the majority of prompts pertaining to favorite things—movie, food, color, and subject in school—have been answered. She notices now as Henry starts to write "Mommy" inside the house-shaped "this is my family" section, but backtracks and changes it to "Mom." She cannot help but grin as he carefully erases the loop of the additional "m." Henry still calls them Mommy and Daddy sometimes, but only at home; he is intentional about using Mom and Dad around his friends and teammates. "Hey, Henry…" something has just occurred to her. "Do you know what Ms. Larkin does with these papers at the end of the week?"

"No. I haven't been the second grade 'Star of the Week' before." It is quite a factual answer, and Addison has to swallow laughter. It makes sense though; if it has not happened to her son personally, then perhaps he would not have any reason to know. "Why?" Henry adds.

"I was just wondering." She will send an email to Ms. Larkin tonight. Henry's teacher is so thoughtful; surely she would return something like this so that the special student and his parents can keep it. Addison would like to have the paper back, if she can. Certain things Henry has put in writing are a given—I am 7 years old, my birthday is March 11, I was born in Santa Monica—but some of his favorites may eventually change, and same with his hobbies and what he wants to be when he grows up. Addison would love to have this paper to preserve who Henry is at this exact moment in time, because who he is at this exact moment in time is extraordinary.

"Do you want us to cut the picture for you?" She keeps her tone mild so that Henry knows either answer is fine, but she is not surprised when he says "yes." Her son is pretty independent—and often frustratingly stubborn as a result—but he is also a perfectionist, and cutting the picture so it can fit neatly inside the oval-shaped "this is me" box will not be the easiest task.

"I can do that." Jake's offer is helpful since the scissors are closer to him, but there is a second reason which has less to do with the location and more to do with reality: "I know how you cut bagels." It is said teasingly, lightheartedly, and it provides Addison with the same cozy feeling the Christmas music playing in the background does. She waits for Henry to chime in to agree—Jake has been the designated bagel slicer from the moment he moved in with them—but he is busy writing his name, and given that the space where he is supposed to put it does not boast a particularly long line, full concentration is needed to spell out Henry Montgomery-Reilly. It is quite a big name for someone still so little, but his parents feel it suits him perfectly. They filed a petition with the local court when Henry was around two years of age so that Jake could formally adopt him, too.

"Fine." Addison playfully wrinkles her nose. "You handle the scissors. I can help with the book." Henry's current favorite book is a National Geographic one with facts about animals. She grabbed it from his bedroom earlier, and plans to slide her finger under each letter as Henry copies the title; he would not want her to spell it aloud for him.

Henry tunes back in at the mention of his book. "Did you know elephant seals sometimes adopt other pups—that's what baby seals are called—and will raise them if the pups don't have a mom? It happens when they're orphans. That means the mom died." He says it casually, almost unflinchingly. He is the child of two doctors though, so while Addison feels like she and Jake handled the initial what of death as tenderly as possible, she can acknowledge their explanation might have been more direct and clinical than that of the average parent. "The book doesn't say why they're orphans, but great white sharks try to eat elephant seals, so the moms might have been attacked when they were swimming. And another predator for elephant seals is…" he laughs with delight. "Cookiecutter sharks. Did you know that's a kind of shark?"

"No, I didn't know about 'cookiecutter sharks.'" Addison looks at Jake, who confirms this species is not familiar to him, either. "That's a cool name." She refocuses on Henry, and is careful to hold his gaze when she says, "You know, it's sad that a pup's birth mom might have been attacked, but I think it's really nice that some pups know what it feels like to be loved by two moms." She can understand why this information about elephant seals would have resonated with Henry, and why he chose to not-so-directly bring up the different ways families are formed. The fact that Henry was adopted has never been a one-and-done conversation, nor should it be. Handling the subject age-appropriately and with positive language—they did a lot of research on when to begin talking to their son about adoption, and what to say both when he has questions and, almost more significantly, when he does not have questions—is less anxiety-inducing for Addison than it used to be. She knows that as Henry gets older, a broader range of feelings will accompany his adoption, but in the meantime, she is glad he understands adoption is something that can be freely and openly discussed in their home.

When Henry turned three, she and Jake talked about expanding their family, but after a few weeks of batting around the idea of starting the adoption home study process, they decided not to. It would have been a lot to go through emotionally, and they both separately and then together came to the conclusion that they were nostalgic for Henry as a baby, not another baby. Addison knows her heart would have had the capacity to grow if they added another member to their family, but truthfully, both then and now, it is hard to imagine loving anyone as much as she loves Henry and Jake.

"I'm the last star for 2019." Henry's smile lengthens as he reveals this, and Addison feels happy that his outlook on the matter is a positive one. She knows she is biased, but she has privately speculated that it took Ms. Larkin this long to make Henry the star of the week because he is such an exemplary student—so smart, kind, and generally well-behaved in class—and therefore it would not have been the best "look" from a favoritism perspective if he was a star right away. "We aren't going to have one next week because it's a shorter week," he adds, which is true. Winter break starts next Wednesday, and then Henry will be off until the new year. "So I'm kind of lucky."

Addison murmurs a quiet agreement. They are all kind of lucky.

More than kind of, actually.

January 2020

"Food should be here in about fifteen minutes." Addison anticipates Henry's question when she hears his clomping footsteps near the bottom of the staircase. She can also predict what kind of clothes her son has changed into, so she is not surprised that when he comes into her line of sight, he is wearing a baseball cap. It was drilled into Addison's head from Bizzy and the Captain that proper etiquette dictates gentlemen—even the tiniest ones—must remove their hats indoors, but she usually lets this rule slide with Henry. He wears a school uniform five days a week, and with darkness still coming so early each evening, and Little League season not set to begin until the spring, he does not have many opportunities to wear hats outside.

"Can I watch TV until the delivery guy comes?"

"Yes," Addison replies, giving in quicker than she maybe should. She meets Jake's eyes from the other side of the counter, where he is catching up on a few emails, and she can hear the unspoken softie allegation he is lobbing at her. "That's fine." She smirks when Henry rather grandly tips the brim of his hat as a form of thanks. Today's hat is a Yankees one. Her son was lucky enough to be on the Yankees last year, but everything will reset this March when the assessment and draft process starts over, so there is a good chance whatever team Henry ends up on for Minors will not feature a dark blue shirt and NY emblem. They will cross that bridge when they come to it; Addison expects Henry will handle the situation with a bit more grace than he would have when he was younger, but she can still remember him sobbing two years ago when they received word that he would be on the Phillies (never mind that he went on to have a great season, and loved his coaches and teammates—he was just not particularly thrilled to have to wear the uniform of a team that Jake informed Addison had one of the worst records in 2017).

Addison likes baseball in that she likes how much her boys like it, and she loves to watch Henry play, but even with a general disinterest in most things MLB-related, she can still grasp how tricky the professional baseball world is to navigate, with multiple allegiances under one roof. Jake likes the Dodgers, but he also still roots for the Orioles, a holdover from growing up in Virginia. Henry loves the Dodgers too, but for as long as Addison can remember, and with zero influence from anyone around him, the Yankees have always been Henry's "other favorite team." Jake says Henry likes the Yankees because he likes "dynasty teams," and because he loves the story of Lou Gehrig (given name Henry). Addison does not disagree with this logic, but she has always wondered if there is another reason her son somehow just knew a New York team was the team for him. For her, it feels like a subtle nod to Derek, and to Mark, too. She can feel them both sometimes, not in overwhelming ways, but in subtle ones that demonstrate they are still "here," in a sense. She has reached a place that allows her to think about them without experiencing guilt for revisiting her past. Time has taught her that she can want her current life, and her loved ones at the very center of it, more than anything else in the world, but she can also hold space for the impactful people who came before Henry and Jake. And, over the past few years, these moments where Addison can occasionally feel Derek or Mark's presence—usually her ex-husband's presence—have been mostly happy moments, rather than regret and grief-tinged ones. She could not stop laughing recently when Henry told her that elephant seal pups who are ready for food besides milk are called "super weaners." Her son giggled like all little boys would when he shared this, and although Addison would normally just offer him an indulgent smile and try to move the conversation toward something less juvenile, that time she laughed even harder than Henry did; it occurred to her just how much Mark would have loved that one.

She expects to hear the flop of her son's body landing on the couch, and high-pitched dialogue from cartoon characters, but instead the grave, warbling voice of a news anchor seems to hang in the air for longer than it typically would when Henry has control of the remote. Addison knows, of course, before she can even register the specific words, what is being discussed. SARS-CoV-2. Novel Coronavirus. They have talked about it at the practice, and are monitoring the situation, sort of spinning the hypotheticals of infection and prevention control if there was to be a wider outbreak. They want to be aware of what is going on both as individuals running a successful business that they would like to remain successful, and also as doctors who are curious about the genetic sequence of the virus, and its transmission rate.

Addison is able to catch more of the segment when she comes closer to the screen. Henry is still clutching the remote. He is standing by the outside arm of the couch, transfixed by the KABC-TV coverage. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has begun screening passengers at LAX on connecting flights from Wuhan…they are conducting similar screenings at San Francisco International Airport and JFK in New York City…there are plans to expand screenings to other major airports…a team has reportedly been deployed to the state of Washington to assist with contact tracing efforts…the situation continues to develop…both Thailand and Japan have confirmed…

"Hey…" Jake sets a hand on Henry's shoulder. "Why don't we put something else on until dinner gets here?"

"That's a great idea," Addison echoes, grateful they are in-sync with this suggestion. She tries to guide air out slowly when her son looks at her. She does not want to alarm him.

Henry's brown eyes are wide when he asks, "Is the virus going to come here?"

"It's okay, kiddo. You don't have to be worried."

March 2020

They do have to be worried though.

Very worried.

Henry turns eight the day that COVID-19 is declared a global pandemic.

The weeks leading up to the World Health Organization's briefing are fraught with anxiety, speculation, and a heavy push for preparedness, with everyone at the practice operating under the banner of just in case. Once the hypotheticals discussed throughout January started to feel a lot less hypothetical though, they stocked up on gloves, N95s, face shields, fluid-resistant gowns, and shoe covers so that the "regular amount" of these items already within their building could be upgraded to a "large amount." There's no way there won't end up being a shortage of medical supplies and household things the second this becomes a full-blown crisis, Naomi had warned. And it's going to affect the city in a much more profound way than that brief window of time where there was a stupid avocado shortage. So whatever it is you need, buy it in bulk while you have the chance.

After it was emphasized in a February twenty-sixth telebriefing that the impact to everyday life was anticipated to be severe, they established a potential protocol for working with SHW patients, and Charlotte started to put the pieces together with St. Ambrose's incident management team as well. Two days later, they all began to wipe down countertops and ancillary equipment twice as thoroughly as they usually did. The entire office now consistently smells like low-level disinfectant.

And fear.

When the announcement comes on March eleventh, everyone at the practice still feels ill-prepared. Everything is just so new. It is only a matter of time before additional protective factors are ordered across the county and state, but it feels uncomfortable anyway to contact their patients, stick a flyer with guidelines on the front door of the building (thankfully, the other floor managers also want to exercise caution), and then update their website to reflect the new process for appointments going forward: please reschedule if you are experiencing any of the following symptoms…come in alone, unless you have a child with you and a childcare provider is not available…call the front desk when you get here, and do not exit your vehicle…someone will come out to ask you some questions, and take your temperature…although there are no official guidelines from federal or state health officials yet, we ask that you wear a mask…we can provide you a disposable one if you do not have one…use the sanitizing station right outside the fifth floor elevator. They transition whatever appointments they can to telehealth ones—easiest for Violet, and for Sheldon, too, who returned to their practice a few years ago. They also make the heartbreaking decision that unless a prenatal appointment is specifically for a sex reveal, the pregnant patient should come alone.

It makes sense to have a protocol like this, Jake shares with Addison later, but it feels so against everything we stand for. When we treat our patients, we tell them it takes a village to feel supported, or to raise a child, but now we're pretty much telling them they can't have a village. This might end up being incredibly isolating for a lot of people.

It turns out, Jake is right.

The world—their world—shifts overnight. Or maybe not so much shifts, but shrinks.

Henry's school closes for a week without much warning. And then an email from the principal with a shoulder-tensing opening statement goes out to all Wakefield Academy parents: In an effort to finish our term, but remain as safe as possible, we will be conducting classes remotely until further notice. We are closely monitoring the situation, and will modify our plans if needed.

Everything gets restructured. Addison and Jake had already been alternating days at home with Henry during his unexpected "break," and will have to continue to do so, with the added adjustment of supervising their son while everything about his educational experience takes a sharp left. Charlotte and Cooper, and Naomi and Sam, are in similar positions; the triplets and Isabel are too young to be left alone. Mason and Betsey have logged plenty of babysitting hours as older siblings, but they have their own online classes, and the little kids are going to need so much technical support.

Having one parent who is at work, and another who is with Henry and also tackling whatever work they can get accomplished from home is the only option Addison and Jake have, because it is safer than having Zoe come over. Zoe has been Henry's nanny for several years now, and in addition to the obvious benefit of being able to look after Henry until Addison or Jake gets home to relieve her, she is like extended family to them now. Henry loves her. They love her, but they do not want to risk her exposing them, or them exposing her. They pay her for the week, and then once the email from the principal comes, they give her an additional two months' pay, even though they are hopeful this period of being locked down will not last more than a few weeks. It feels like the least they can do, especially since they are in a financial position to be able to offer support. They extend the same response to the cleaning service who comes—or was coming—every other week.

"This confirms it for me: I could never homeschool, or be a teacher," Savvy says one evening when she and Addison are talking on the phone. "This morning Cate's teacher was having WiFi issues, and she got disconnected, and somehow Cate became the new host, and Addie…she didn't let Mrs. Perez back into the meeting. She. Didn't. Let. Her. Back. In." This makes Addison laugh. She loves all three of Savvy and Weiss's children—who range between twelve and five—but she has a soft spot for bold, impish Catherine. "I was helping get the boys set up, so it took me like twenty minutes before I realized a bunch of Cate's classmates' parents had texted me to tell me my kid hijacked fourth grade. And the thing is…"

A memory comes to Addison of a preschool-aged Henry looking at pictures of Isaac—Savvy and Weiss's youngest—that were texted to her the day after he was born. Henry pointed at a shot of Savvy seated in a hospital rocking chair, with Weiss peeking over her shoulder at the little bundle cuddled in her arms. Then, Henry asked where their scrubs were. Addison got a kick out of telling Jake about it later. Their son was apparently under the impression that all adoptive mommies and daddies delivered their own babies, not just adoptive parents who happened to be doctors and were unbelievably blessed to be in the right place at the right time.

Addison startles, coming out of the thoughts swirling in her head when she hears a lilting inflection from her friend. "Sorry, Sav. You cut out a bit." She hopes her lie is not obvious. "What did you say?"

"I was just saying that I need you to tell me it's not all smooth sailing with Henry's schooling."

"It's not."

Adjusting to "Zoom school"—it has a name now—has not been without immense difficulties for the teachers, for the students, and for the parents. Addison ticks off a few problems to assure Savvy it is not an issue isolated to just her family. The mute and unmute button has come with a learning curve, but the students in Henry's class quickly figured out how to use emoji reactions…overuse, actually, to the point that it is distracting. Kids will walk away mid-lesson, usually to get a drink or something from their room or hold up a pet cat for their classmates to see, or in the case of Sterling—Henry's best friend—simply close the laptop because, as his mom later shared with Addison, "He told me he didn't feel like doing Zoom school anymore today."

Most of the students have discovered how to change their backgrounds, and they won't stop doing it. They make silly faces at each other. For the ones who have successfully unmuted or never muted in the first place, they call out answers rather than resorting to the raised hand feature. The "virtual scavenger hunt" Ms. Larkin attempted earlier in the week was a cute idea in theory, but yielded disastrous results, and virtual PE is not going much better. This afternoon, Addison was helping Henry type something into the chat, and four students were talking over each other. She noticed when Ms. Larkin briefly closed her eyes and drew in a breath, as though trying to gather patience and strength.

"We need to send Ms. Larkin a gift card or something," Addison tells Jake after she and Savvy have ended their call. "Maybe a Visa one, so she can spend it however she wants. This is too much for teachers to take on."

It is too much for all of them to take on. Addison was the one home with Henry today, but she can visualize what Jake's day looked like even without him sharing anything about it. Their different specialties guarantee they cannot have one-hundred percent overlap, but the way they are working right now is structured the same. At the practice, they wear masks and stay six feet apart, but they do not linger around each other even when they are distanced. There is no more gathering in the break room, or in the meeting room. They remain in their separate offices for lunch, and if they need to check in with a colleague or multiple colleagues, they do it on the Teams app Sam installed for them all. When Violet and Sheldon come in, it is really just to get something they need in between the telephone and video appointments they conduct in their own homes. And as for the SHW doctors who need to physically examine patients…they do what they can to minimize contact and prolonged closeness. They smile beneath their masks in a way that reaches their eyes, but Addison is pretty sure that when she is at St. Ambrose, when the amount of PPE seems more like what a knight getting fitted for battle would wear than a surgeon, it is no longer obvious if she is smiling. She recently thought about the toxic patient who was at Grey Sloan at the same time she was. The complications in the OR ended with Addison fainting and resurfacing to find herself in a hospital bed as she struggled to catch her breath. It had been reckless to go in there without proper protection—everyone said so—even though she did not really see it that way at the time. But, she also knows that she did not have as much to lose then, either.

She delivered her first "pandemic baby"—it somehow feels dirty to say that—yesterday. Healthy baby, healthy mom, and were it not for strict visitor policies and infection-control practices at St. Ambrose, it would have just been a routine delivery. Addison could see fear crowding what was visible of her laboring patient's face, and although she has often felt like fear can be a motivating factor when it comes to bearing down and pushing, this was fear on fire. She was in the room a few hours later when the new mom FaceTimed her parents. They live in Sacramento, she told Addison, her lips twitching underneath the confines of her mask. They came down right away after our daughter was born, but we decided it wouldn't be safe to do that this time. So, I don't really know when Nathan will get to meet his grandparents.

When Addison and Jake get home after work, they disinfect their cell phones and any personal items before entering the house. They go straight from the garage to the first floor bathroom—thank God they remodeled it a few years ago to expand it from a simple half bath—where they vigorously wash their hands and then change into new clothes. They try to be calm when they perform this new routine, calling out sing-song hellos to Henry as they come into the house. Just like Addison (though she tries her best not to show it in front of her son), Henry tends to be a worrier. Jake has always been able to provide a nice reframe each time Addison expresses how similar she and Henry are in this regard, by reminding her that their son worries sometimes because he has so many great qualities: he is thoughtful, smart, and observant. It is a lot harder to find a positive spin lately though. There are legitimate reasons to be worried, because even though they believe they are doing everything they can to stay safe, it still may not be enough. All they can really do is build the plane while they are flying it.

And too much for all of them to take on includes children, of course. When it comes to their nuclear family, Henry's world is the one that has wilted the most. He ends up being more upset about his Little League season being canceled than he is about his academic life being reduced to squares on a fingerprint-smudged screen.

Addison notes the sadness that washes over her son's face when she tells him about the fate of his season—the first day back on the field was supposed to be next Saturday—and for a moment, she can see a younger version of Henry, his cheeks more full and his little fists etched with the most kissable dimples. He went to his first Dodgers game when he was two and-a-half. He was asleep by the third inning, his face half-shaded by a hat that was too big for him as he dozed on Jake's shoulder. They still like to tease him about this sometimes. For a boy who loves baseball so much, they say, you sure didn't like your first game enough to stay awake.

"It's not fair."

"You're right, Henry." Addison does her best to validate his feelings. "It's not fair at all—none of this is fair—but this is what we have to do to keep ourselves safe, and to keep other people safe."

Henry sighs glumly. "How long do we have to do it for?"

"We're not sure," Jake says. "We're just going to have to take it one day at a time."

"Guess what I tried yesterday?" Angela says to Henry, a smile tweaking at the left corner of her mouth. "Octopus."

"Whoa. Was it gross?" Henry leans closer to the laptop, intrigued by his big sister's revelation. Addison and Jake are seated beside him. They have always FaceTimed when they talk with Angela, or done a phone call if it is just a quick check-in that does not involve Henry, but lately when the four of them have time to connect, it is over Zoom. Addison is not sure why, but this has now become their default communication platform.

"No, not really. It was okay," Angela tells him. "I think it was one of those things where I expected to hate it…but it actually wasn't that bad." She briefly glances at Addison and Jake, but then she looks back at Henry, and really only has eyes for him. Angela loves Henry so much. More than Addison thought she would, honestly. She expected Angela to love him, yes, but because of the large age gap between the siblings, she did not anticipate that Angela would love him this much, and be so deeply, emotionally connected to him. Addison and Jake have both thought that Angela's tight bond with Henry was what drew her toward her current career path, when for years her long-term goal was to be an emergency physician. Instead, Angela is approaching the end of her first year in the Pediatric Residency Program at UCSF.

"Does Garrett like octopus?" Henry asks.

"He didn't like it very much either. The octopus was a surprise addition…but luckily Garrett ordered plenty of things from Ozumo that I do like. He says 'hi,' by the way. He knew we were going to Zoom tonight," Angela throws in, looking at Addison and Jake again. "He's still at the hospital. Night shift. But…" her cheeks go pinker as she briefly trails off. "He just texted me to say 'goodnight.'"

Addison smiles at this blush-filled admission. She adores Angela's boyfriend. He is the sort of guy she would want to see her step-daughter with. Garrett is kind, funny, and responsible, and it truly feels like icing on the cake that he is also good with Henry. Even Jake likes him. As a father and a protective person even without the parental label, Jake would probably prefer if Angela didn't date at all—it had long been a dream of his, in fact—but Garrett has grown on him over the past four years, and as Addison once pointed out, Angela could do so much worse than Garrett. And she did, for a while. Addison can feel the pressure building in the base of her stomach when she thinks about the time her husband answered his phone and Angela's harsh, labored sobs came through from thousands of miles away. It did not matter how independent and self-sufficient Angela had always been; they helped her every step of the way, which felt quite literal, given how far they went to retrieve her. As soon as it became clear what had happened, Addison was in motion, starting with texting Violet to see if she could look after Henry for a few days. They flew to Rome to bring Angela home—barely halfway through what was supposed to be an entire semester abroad—once Angela realized all the ways in which she and a man thirty years her senior were not compatible. She had been so charmed by Eli's worldly-and-sophisticated gimmick, when in reality, it was just predatory, and in the end, it was not all that surprising Angela found proof on Eli's phone that she was not the only twenty-year-old he was interested in—even though he had insisted to Jake at a very uncomfortable dinner that he had never fallen for a student before. It is hard to teach someone young to not be naïve though, when being naïve is really just a part of being young. Although Addison and Jake let Angela make that mistake with Eli, in hindsight, they both wish they had tried harder to talk her out of diving headfirst into a relationship with her professor.

Angela lived with them for a few months while she found her footing again (Addison feels that that was when Angela's love for Henry really developed, and was what ultimately healed her broken heart). It didn't take long for her to flourish again though, and once she started, she didn't look back. She eventually moved out to live in a Westwood apartment with a few university friends, crushed the MCAT, graduated from UCLA with honors, and got into her top choice for medical school. Addison knows that Angela met Garrett in Foundations of Patient Care, and unlike many med school-devised relationships for whom marriage appears inevitable, but lasting forever is ultimately not—Addison herself being a statistic in this—she expects Angela and Garrett to not just remain together, but to also continue to bring out the best in each other.

"When we visit you again, can we eat at that place we went last time?" Henry asks his sister, voice brimming with hopefulness. "With the bread bowls?"

"Yep. And we'll go to Pier 39 again, too." Angela looks a bit sad as she stares back at her brother; none of them can, at this point, actively plan for a weekend together in San Francisco. "It's like…empty here." Her gaze slips over to Jake. "I think a lot of people are going to leave if restrictions end up being long-term. For a lot of the tech jobs, you can work remotely from anywhere, so what's the point of staying in a city with such steep rent when everything is shut down? But I guess it's probably empty everywhere, not just—"

"You're staying safe, right? And Garrett, too?" Addison cuts in. She has never been more relieved than she has been over the past few weeks that her step-daughter pursued a different direction for her residency. Emergency Medicine would have had Angela treating the influx of people now pouring into emergency departments all over the country, and it would also include time in the ICU. It has become life or death, and not just for the infected patients.

"I'm staying safe, Addie. We both are." Angela smiles, perhaps surprised that Addison asked the question before Jake did.

Addie. It was Addison until all of a sudden it wasn't; she assumes that Angela heard Naomi call her "Addie," and that was what jump started it. Jake says Addison—along with the occasional honey or sweetheart—and so does everyone else Addison met after moving to L.A., but Angela has called her "Addie" for years now. She says it with such warmth, as though it has become some sort of honorary title, like "Mom" but without saying "Mom." You're not just a step-mom, Angela told her before she left for med school. You're like my second mom, Addie.

That was another thing Addison never expected when she and Jake became a blended family: just how much she would love Angela, and how much Angela would come to love her. In the same way that Addison would do everything in her life, including the bad parts and all the mistakes, over and over and over again if it meant that it would all lead to Jake and Henry, she would do it for Angela, too.

"I promise I'm staying safe," Angela emphasizes. They trust her, they really do, but reassurance feels paramount in these "unprecedented times" (Jake has said they should start adding a quarter to a jar whenever they hear this phrase).

Stay safe. Be safe. That is all anyone seems to say lately. The Montgomery-Reillys are lucky their family members have been able to achieve this so far. They confirm for Angela now that everyone on Jake's side is doing well. That's something Addison and Angela have in common, too: the family they inherited, Angela first by becoming Jake's step-daughter (he has always been Dad to her though, just further proof that families are created in so many ways), and Addison by becoming his wife. There are Jake's sisters, two still in Alexandria, and one in New Jersey. They are safe, and their husbands and kids are safe, too. And that was yet another form of inheritance, another wonderful thing for Addison that came from marrying her now-husband: nieces and nephews. She had once assumed she would never have nieces and nephews again, as divorcing Derek had—slowly, and then more deliberately—severed her ties with all the other Shepherds, save for one. Most of Addison's "new" nieces and nephews fall into the high school and middle school range, but Cecilia's youngest two are closer to Henry's age.

"And your dad and brother are doing okay, Addie?"

Addison nods. The Captain is still in Connecticut—he "scaled down" to a four-bedroom home in Old Greenwich after Bizzy's funeral. He is moving slower than he used to, and with a new hip on his right side, but by all accounts, he is healthy, and is taking quarantining seriously. And Archer is doing okay, too. He is currently stationed out on the Vineyard. Whenever he is working on a new book, he heads to the waterfront property that has been in Bizzy's family—the Bradford side—for three generations. This time is no exception, and Archer has determined it seems safer to just remain there for now.

She thinks of Judi, too, even though Angela did not ask about her. Judi is not exactly family, but she is someone they have a significant connection to; she generally visits them once a year, and Addison tries to send her an email with pictures of Henry every few months. Judi lives in San Bernardino now, and when Addison sent her an email a few days ago to check in, it sounded like Judi has been staying safe, too. In an alternate world—or what should be the real world—Addison imagines sending her son's birth mom an email with attachments that feature what their spring of 2020 should have looked like. What it would normally look like. A shaky, through-the-fence video of Henry's stand-up double. And then, pictures. Lots of them. A picture of Henry at his piano recital. Henry proudly holding a diorama box the second graders always make in the spring and display near the classroom windows. Henry and his best friend wandering wide-eyed through one of the shadowy walk-thru tunnels at the local aquarium, pointing at the fish swimming above them. Henry at the top of the ferris wheel at Pacific Park, squinting in the sunlight. Henry flanked by friends and classmates as he blew out eight candles at his favorite indoor play place—they canceled his birthday party out of an abundance of caution.

"They're doing okay." Addison wants to offer more to Angela than just a quick bob of her head. "And we're doing okay, too," she says out of habit.

Doing okay. That seems to be the other thing people are saying a lot.

It is true, in Addison's situation. And in her family's situation, too. She can feel an element of weariness each time she says it or thinks it though.

End Note: Chapter title is a shortened version of the line, "We turn not older with years, but newer every day," which was in a letter Emily Dickinson wrote.