I broke my arm because my husband, Jason, wouldn’t shovel the snow.
That’s not a metaphor. That’s exactly what happened.
The night before his birthday weekend, I stood by our front door staring at the porch steps. A thin, slick shine of ice had already started to form, the kind that looks harmless until it steals your feet.
“Jason,” I said, keeping my voice calm because I already knew how he’d react if I didn’t. “It’s getting icy. Can you please shovel and salt before bed? I don’t want to fall.”
He didn’t even look up from his phone.
“I’ll do it later,” he muttered.
“You said that an hour ago.”
He sighed like I was ruining his life. “You’re being dramatic. It’s a couple of steps. I’ll do it. Stop nagging.”
I went to bed angry and anxious, listening for the sound of the door opening. Listening for the scrape of a shovel. Listening for any sign that my husband cared enough to do one small thing so I wouldn’t get hurt.
It never came.
The next morning I was running late for work. I’m right-handed, so my bag and coffee were in my right hand while I fumbled with the lock using my left. I opened the door, stepped onto the top step, and my foot hit pure ice.
There was no time to grab the railing.
My feet flew out from beneath me. My elbow smashed into the step, and my whole weight crashed down on my right arm.
I heard the crack.
The pain was bright and hot and immediate, so intense it stole my breath. Then I screamed.
Our neighbor, Mrs. Patel, ran out in her robe.
“Oh my God,” she gasped, kneeling beside me. “Don’t move. Can you feel your fingers?”
I was sobbing so hard my words came out broken. “Yeah. It hurts. It hurts so bad.”
She tried calling Jason.
No answer.
We were ten feet from our front door and my husband didn’t pick up. Through the window, I could see the shape of him on the couch, like a shadow that didn’t belong to me.
Mrs. Patel called 911.
The paramedics splinted my arm and loaded me into the ambulance. I shook the whole ride—pain, anger, humiliation, all twisted together in my chest. As we passed the front window, I saw him again on the couch.
At the ER, they took X-rays. The doctor returned with that steady, professional expression that means the news isn’t great, but it isn’t fatal.
