The next morning, I was already running behind for work. I’m right-handed, so I had my bag and coffee in my right hand while struggling with the lock using my left.
I opened the door, stepped onto the top stair—and my foot landed straight on ice.
My legs flew out from under me. My elbow slammed into the step, and all my weight came crashing down onto my right arm.
I heard the snap.
The pain was instant—sharp, searing, overwhelming. I couldn’t even breathe at first. Then I screamed.
Our neighbor, Mrs. Patel, rushed out in her robe.
“Oh my God,” she said, dropping to her knees beside me. “Don’t move. Can you feel your fingers?”
I was crying uncontrollably. “Yes. It hurts. It hurts so much.”
She tried calling Jason. No response.
We were less than ten feet from our front door, and my husband didn’t answer his phone.
The paramedics stabilized my arm and loaded me into the ambulance. I was trembling—from the pain, the rage, and the sheer embarrassment.
As we pulled away, we passed our front window.
I could see Jason’s silhouette on the couch.
At the hospital, they took X-rays. When the doctor returned, his expression was calm—but serious.
“You’ve got a fracture in your right arm,” he said. “We’ll put it in a cast. No lifting, no driving, no cooking anything heavy. You need real rest.”
They wrapped my arm from hand to almost shoulder. It felt heavy and useless. Every small move sent pain shooting through me.
“Let people help you,” the doctor said. “You can’t power through this.”
Jason was on the couch, TV on, phone in hand, like nothing had happened.
He looked up, saw the cast, and frowned.
“Whoa,” he said. “Damn.”
I waited for “Are you okay?”
It didn’t come.
Instead, he shrugged. “Well, that’s really unfortunate timing.”
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