The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 8

"Dinner's ready, Archie."

Sloane set the food on the dining table. Archie dragged his feet into the room, staring critically at the plate. "It doesn't look like Quinn's."

"Just try a bite. It might surprise you," Sloane urged, clinging to her patience.

Archie took a few bites, dropped his fork, and said, "I'm full."

"You need to eat a little more. You'll wake up hungry."

"No." Archie slid out of his chair. "I'm going to wait for Quinn."

A fierce throbbing started at Sloane's temples. She took a slow, deep breath. "Archie, isn't it enough that Mom is here with you?"

Archie stared back at her, his eyes clear and brutally direct. "But Quinn tells me cool stories about how the brain works and how the heart beats. All you ever say is 'wait for Dad to get back.'"

Sloane was shaking violently, but she found herself entirely paralyzed. She couldn't even force a single word out of her mouth.

*

The night crept on in deafening silence. Archie had finally fallen asleep in bed.

His small body was curled under a space-themed duvet, his cheeks flushed and soft in the glow of the nightlight.

Sloane watched his profile, a familiar, agonizing warmth swelling in her chest. Before he turned three, Archie had always slept in her bed. She used to hold his chubby little body like a tiny furnace. He would kick his blankets off in the middle of the night, and he would cry. Sloane would wake up five times a night to tuck him back in and soothe him back to sleep. When he ran a fever, she would sit up with him until dawn.

Back then, she had been exhausted, but she had been so incredibly happy.

But now...

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