The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 310

"Dorothy, take the boy downstairs," Garrison said. His voice was remarkably steady, completely devoid of panic.

"I'm not leaving!" Archie yelled almost instantly. He gripped the hem of Garrison's coat even tighter, tilting his head back to look up at his father, thick tears welling in his eyes. "Dad—Grandma she—"

"Listen to me."

Garrison cut him off. He spoke the words softly, but they carried an undeniable, commanding authority.

Dorothy stepped forward, crouching down to pull Archie into her arms. Archie struggled, but Dorothy held him firmly. As she carried him toward the stairs, he leaned over her shoulder, twisting his head to look back. His gaze bypassed Dorothy's graying hair, locking onto Garrison until the stairwell door clicked shut behind them.

Garrison watched his son disappear into the stairwell before slowly turning around.

Vincent was still stretching his hand out, begging desperately. His voice had gone hoarse, repeating the same broken pleas over and over: "Come down first," and "We can talk this out."

Quinn was sobbing so hard she could no longer form coherent sentences, merely choking out the word "Mom" between gasps. Rosemary's fingers gripping the railing were twitching, slowly loosening their hold. Her body swayed precariously in the wind, like a dead leaf ready to detach and plummet at any second.

Garrison didn't move an inch closer.

He leaned casually against the stone pillar at the garden entrance, his arms crossed over his chest in a posture that hovered somewhere between sheer exhaustion and utter apathy. He watched them for a moment, then reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, clamped a cigarette between his lips, and cupped his hand to block the wind as he lit it.

Once upon a time, he had absolutely despised the smell of smoke.

But over the past five years, he had grown accustomed to keeping a pack on him. Perhaps the fleeting moments of smoking were the only times he could temporarily detach himself from reality.

The lighter's flame danced in the biting wind and died out. He sparked it again, and this time it caught. He took a long drag. The smoke slipped past his lips, instantly shredded into pale blue wisps by the freezing rooftop wind before vanishing completely.

But she had never in a million years imagined that her own son would lean against a pillar, smoking a cigarette, looking at her with the cold, detached eyes of a total stranger, and tell her to jump.

"Garrison!"

Rosemary suddenly shrieked. Her fingers locked onto the wrought-iron bars in a death grip, her knuckles turning so white the bone seemed ready to pierce her skin. Tears were still pouring down her face, but the sorrow in her eyes was rapidly being swallowed by a far more explosive emotion. It was pure, unadulterated fury—the indignant wrath of a cornered woman who had finally stripped away all her fragile disguises.

"Are you really going to stand there and watch me die?! I am your mother!"

Garrison remained leaning against the pillar. The cigarette in his hand had burned halfway down, a long cylinder of ash clinging to the end, completely ignored. He heard her words, but he didn't even flinch.

Rosemary's voice grew even more piercing, as if she were scraping decades of repressed bitterness straight out of her throat. "I gave birth to you and raised you for thirty-six years! Thirty-six years, Garrison! Do you have any idea how much I've sacrificed for you? From the day you were born, every bite of food you ate, every piece of clothing you wore, every book you read—which one of them wasn't because of me—"