The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 467

Her tears finally spilled over, dropping one by one onto the collar of the bathrobe, staining the dark blue cotton black.

"After I turned ten, I spent every birthday alone. Josh would sneak cake to me, and I didn't even know what to wish for. Was I supposed to wish for my dad to visit me? I wished for it for ten years, and he never came. Now he has cancer and is dying, and he says he wants to see me, so I just have to go? Did he ever visit me during the ten years I lay in a coma? He didn't even know if I was dead or alive. What right does he have to run to you now and say he wants to see me?"

By the end, her voice was completely hoarse. She wiped her face haphazardly with the back of her hand, tugging the IV tube slightly. A tiny bead of blood seeped from the injection site.

Garrison felt an overwhelming, suffocating ache in his chest. He pulled a tissue from the coffee table, not handing it directly to her, but placing it on the sofa armrest beside her.

Then, he swapped her cold glass of water for a fresh, warm one, setting it down next to the tissue.

"Sloane, you misunderstood." His voice was low and steady. "I'm not telling you to go see him. I just thought you had the right to know. Whether you go or not is entirely up to you."

He looked at her, his gaze devoid of persuasion or implication. It was a look of complete, unreserved respect.

"You need to know that whatever decision you make, I will respect it."

*

At two in the morning, Sloane lay wide awake on the single bed in the study, staring at the ceiling.

She tried counting sheep, tried focusing on her breathing, tried emptying her mind of all the chaotic thoughts. But the man she had called "Dad" for over a decade—the man who had never treated her like a daughter—kept barging into her thoughts uninvited.

She found herself thinking about something else—he had lost so much weight.

In the video Garrison had shown her, his cheekbones were protruding, and his hands were bruised and battered from the IV needles.

He looked nothing like the sharp, commanding businessman she remembered.

She hated him. She had hated him for years, cleanly and justifiably. But lying in the dark, even though the hatred remained, her heart twisted in a sour, agonizing knot.

She sat up, her bare feet hitting the wooden floor, and quietly pushed the door open to step outside. Garrison's bedroom door was ajar. There was no light inside, only the sound of steady breathing. Without waking him, she slipped into her shoes, opened the front door, and walked out.