The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 275

"Daddy, I want Mommy!"

"I want my Mommy!"

"Mommy, wwaaahhhhh..."

Garrison gently patted his son's back, staring at the portrait on the altar. The smiling face looking back at him suddenly filled him with a sickening sense of absurdity, which quickly curdled into helpless rage.

*Sloane, look at your son crying!*

*Look how heartbroken your boy is. Do you really not want him anymore?!*

*Sloane, how could you be so cruel!*

But just as quickly, the anger dissolved into a desperate plea—a pathetic, soul-crushing prayer that he would have traded his very life to have answered.

*Darling, please come back...*

*Just come back to me...*

*I'm begging you...*

*

The funeral concluded, and the crowd slowly dispersed.

Outside the chapel, the crisp autumn wind swept dead sycamore leaves across the steps, the dry rustling echoing in the chill air.

Rosemary had taken Archie home—the exhausted child couldn't even keep his eyes open. His little head slumped against his grandmother's shoulder, his small arms still fiercely locked around the picture frame.

Rosemary had murmured to Garrison, "I'll take him back first," and he hadn't argued.

Garrison stood near the altar, watching his mother's silhouette disappear through the doors. He watched Archie's tiny hand hanging limply over Rosemary's shoulder, his fingers still curled as if holding onto the frame.

Not even a sound.

Inside the room, the curtains were half-drawn. The afternoon light squeezed through the gap, painting a narrow strip of dusty gold across the faded wooden floorboards. The air carried that distinct funeral home scent—a mix of antiseptic, wilted petals, and old wood. It smelled as if sorrow itself had been fermenting in the air for far too long, seeping into the very pores of the walls.

Garrison was resting on the sofa, his head leaning back against the cold wall.

The buttons of his black suit jacket were undone. His tie was loosened, hanging slack around his collar, exposing a deeply attractive stretch of his collarbone.

His eyes were closed, his head tilted back. His Adam's apple formed a sharp, pronounced curve in the dim light. The bruise stretching from his cheekbone to his jaw had faded to a dull yellow, the split on his lip crusted over, his lips dry and peeling.

He was utterly exhausted, seemingly fast asleep. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, radiating a rare, unguarded vulnerability he almost never showed.

Quinn's breath hitched in her throat.

She could feel something that had been lying dormant in the darkest corners of her heart for far, far too long slowly beginning to awaken.