The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 19

Inside the brightly lit room, five-year-old Archie woke up, parting his little lips to push out a rough, exhausted whisper.

"Dad... Dad..." He looked at Garrison first.

Garrison leaned down close to his son's ear, his voice incredibly soft. "Dad's right here."

His eyes then drifted to Quinn. "Quinn..."

Quinn covered her mouth, her tears spilling over as she nodded frantically.

Finally, he spotted Vincent and Rosemary. "Grandpa... Grandma... I missed you..."

The older couple was already sobbing freely. "Oh, my sweet boy, it's okay now... Grandpa and Grandma are right here..."

Three generations of family, laughing and crying, drowning in the overwhelming euphoria of a disaster narrowly avoided. It was a picturesque scene of absolute devotion and unbreakable bonds—the kind of love that only blood could forge.

And not a single one of them bothered to look back.

Separated by a wall of glass, Sloane stood in the corridor. Leaning against the frigid wall, her pale face was cloaked in the shadows just beyond the warm hospital lights.

The angry red welt still burned across her cheek. She stared silently through the window at the tearful, joyous reunion. There was absolutely zero emotion on her face—no heartbreak, no jealousy, not even numbness.

She just watched, as if observing a tragicomedy that had absolutely nothing to do with her.

Slowly, she slipped her hand into her coat pocket. Her fingers brushed against a sodden, crumpled wad of paper—the terminal cancer diagnosis she had crushed outside the cafe and thoroughly drowned in the sea.

She pulled it out.

The paper was practically disintegrating, the ink completely bled out from the salt water into an illegible smear. With absolute, chilling serenity, she began to tear it apart. She shredded it into smaller and smaller pieces, reducing it to damp confetti that could never, ever be pieced back together.

Her movements were meticulous. Glacial.

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