Unfortunate timing.
He wasn’t worried about me. He was worried about his birthday party. Twenty guests. A roast I was “supposed” to make. A house that now wouldn’t clean itself.
“You’ll figure it out,” he said. “It’s your responsibility. Don’t embarrass me.”
That was the moment something finally clicked.
This wasn’t new. I had always carried the weight—holidays, hosting, cleaning, planning—while he took credit and called it “teamwork.” Even injured, I was still expected to perform.
So I smiled.
“I’ll handle it.”
And I did.
But not the way he expected.
I hired a cleaning service for a full deep clean. I ordered catered food for twenty people. I paid for everything myself—quietly. Then I made one more call.
My lawyer.
We arranged for him to be served during the party.
The house was spotless. The food looked professional. Guests arrived, impressed. Jason soaked up the praise like it belonged to him.
Then the doorbell rang.
He opened it to find a process server with divorce papers. Behind him stood the cleaning manager and the caterer—receipts in hand, calmly explaining that I had paid for everything because I was medically unable to cook or clean.
The room went silent.
Jason turned to me, furious. “You’re humiliating me!”
“No,” I said. “You did that yourself.”
I reminded everyone—calmly—why my arm was broken. Why I was sitting there in a cast. Why his birthday mattered more to him than my safety.
Then I picked up my bag and walked out.
No shouting. No chaos. Just clarity.
That night, sitting on a friend’s couch with my arm propped up, I felt exhausted. Sad. Relieved. Free.
I didn’t ruin his birthday.
I reclaimed my life.
And that was the best gift I ever gave myself.