I broke my arm because my husband refused to shovel the snow.
Not symbolically. Not emotionally. Literally.
The night before his birthday weekend, I stood at the front door staring at the steps. A thin layer of ice had already formed—the dangerous kind that looks harmless until it drops you. I asked him calmly. Carefully. The way you do when you already know pushing harder will only make things worse.
“Can you shovel and salt before bed?” I said. “It’s icy. I don’t want to fall.”
He didn’t even look up from his phone.
“I’ll do it later.”
“You said that an hour ago.”
He sighed, annoyed. “You’re overreacting. It’s just a few steps. Stop nagging.”
I went to bed uneasy, listening for the scrape of a shovel. It never came.
The next morning I was late for work. Coffee in one hand, bag in the other, I opened the door and stepped out.
My foot hit ice.
I didn’t have time to grab the railing. My body slammed down hard, all my weight crashing onto my right arm. I heard the crack before I felt the pain—and then the pain exploded.
I screamed.
Our neighbor rushed over and called for help. Jason didn’t answer his phone. He was ten feet away, inside the house, completely unaware—or unconcerned.
At the hospital, the X-ray confirmed it. A fractured arm. A heavy cast. No lifting. No driving. No cooking. No “powering through.”
When I came home, Jason glanced at the cast and frowned.
“That’s… unfortunate timing,” he said.
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