The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 308

Archie wore a long-sleeved navy tee, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in his usual style, revealing forearms that were just beginning to lose their childish softness.

His freshly washed hair was still slightly damp. A few stray locks clung to his forehead, making his striking resemblance to Sloane even more pronounced.

"What are you up to?" Garrison asked, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress as his gaze zeroed in on the small box in the boy's lap.

"Polishing my medals."

Archie proudly hoisted up a gold medal. The polished surface gleamed brilliantly like a mirror. He tried to suppress his grin to look humble, resulting in an adorably awkward smirk. "The Metropolitan Youth Swimming Championships from last week. 100-meter freestyle. First place."

He leaped off the bed and dashed over to his desk, grabbing the rest of his hardware to show his father one by one.

"This one's from the district meet last year. This is from the winter regionals two years ago. And this one—the biggest one—is from the state junior team trials. 200-meter individual medley. First place again."

Garrison accepted the heavy ribbons, examining each medal with immense care.

They came in all shapes and sizes. Some were engraved with specific dates and events, while others were simply smooth, gilded metal. But he studied every single one.

As he stared at the gold, it felt as though he were looking straight into the past. Sloane had won her first medal at the age of eight—also a first-place finish at a city youth meet. Quentin Hayes had told him she used to leave all her trophies at the training center because she was never allowed to display them at home. Now, her son was dominating the exact same pools, using her exact stroke mechanics, and bringing home the gold she never could.

Genetics were both incredibly beautiful and devastatingly cruel.

"Look at this one, Dad. I won it last month, so it's still practically brand new. Coach says my reaction time off the blocks is insane. He said I'm just like Mom."

It was Dorothy. She had served the family for over two decades, having practically watched Garrison grow up. Now in her early sixties, her hair was gray and her posture slightly stooped. She leaned heavily against the doorframe, clutching her chest and gasping for air, her wrinkles deepening with every panicked breath.

"Mr. Foster—it's terrible! A disaster!" she shrieked, her voice shaking violently. "It's Rosemary! She's—she's going to jump off the roof!"

*

By the time Garrison and Archie sprinted up to the rooftop terrace, the freezing winter wind was howling across the concrete. It shrieked through the air, wildly thrashing the thick leaves of the potted evergreens.

Rosemary had meticulously curated this rooftop oasis herself, planting vibrant roses in the summer and hardy holly in the winter, ensuring it remained lush all year round.