I broke my arm the day before my husband’s milestone birthday, and instead of worrying about me, he only cared about whether it would ruin his party. I went ahead and made sure the celebration happened—just not in the way he had planned.
I ended up breaking my arm because my husband, Jason, refused to shovel the snow.
Not figuratively. Literally.
“Jason,” I said, “it’s starting to freeze out there. Can you please shovel and put down salt before we go to bed? I don’t want to slip.”
He didn’t even glance up from his phone.
“I’ll get to it later,” he said.
“You already said that an hour ago.”
He let out an exaggerated sigh, like I was asking for the impossible. “You’re overreacting. It’s just a few steps. I said I’ll do it. Stop nagging.”
I went to bed upset and uneasy, lying awake and waiting to hear the door open.
It never did.
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