The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 300

The following evening, Garrison emerged from the lab. He swapped his sterile white coat for a dark gray cashmere overcoat and splashed cold water on his face.

He caught his reflection in the mirror. His cheekbones appeared sharper, his gaze was heavy with exhaustion, and a few stray silver threads glinted at his temples.

Not that he cared. At thirty-six, his days as a spirited, carefree youth were long gone.

Running a hand through his hair, he grabbed his car keys and walked out.

The Foster Estate remained exactly as he remembered. The red brick walls, the ornate wrought-iron gates, and the bare branches of the ancient locust tree stretching into the winter night. Strings of newly hung red lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, casting scarlet reflections across the snow-dusted ground. The porch lights glowed with a warm, golden hue, offering the illusion that someone inside was actually waiting for him.

The doorbell chimed.

He rang the doorbell.

The moment the door opened, a wave of central heating and the rich aroma of a home-cooked meal washed over him.

"Garrison is home!"

Rosemary's voice drifted from the living room, followed by the frantic slap of slippers against the hardwood floor. Wearing an apron and still holding a spatula, she jogged out of the kitchen. A wide, eager smile broke across her face the second she saw Garrison in the foyer. "Come in, come in! It's freezing out there. Look at you, you've lost weight again. Have you been skipping meals?"

Garrison shrugged off his coat, hung it on the rack, and slipped into the warm slippers she offered before stepping into the living room.

"Dad!"

A voice echoed from the stairs, followed by the rapid thud of footsteps.

Archie bounded down from the second floor, his slippers slapping loudly against the wooden steps. He was ten now. The tiny boy who had sobbed his heart out while clutching Sloane's photo at her funeral had grown into a proper young man.

He had shot up in height, already reaching Garrison's chest. Dressed in a navy-blue hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, he showed off forearms that were just beginning to develop a lean strength.

His hair was cut short, the sides buzzed clean, framing a face with increasingly defined features—features that looked more like Sloane's with every passing day. It was especially true of his eyes. With their slight upward tilt at the corners, they were striking, clear, and intensely bright.