My Husband Forced Me To Host His Birthday Party with My Arm Broken – So I Taught Him a Lesson He’ll Never Forget

I looked back at him.

“You said my broken arm was bad timing for your birthday,” I said. “This is my timing.”

I opened the door and stepped outside.

My friend Megan was parked at the curb, waiting. I’d told her, “When you see three strangers go in, give it 10 minutes, then pull up.”

She hopped out when she saw my cast and the bag.

“You ready?” she asked quietly.

“No,” I said. “But I’m leaving anyway.”

She took my bag, helped me into the passenger seat, and we drove off.

My phone buzzed with calls and texts—Jason, his mom, unknown numbers.

I turned it off.

At Megan’s place, she helped me onto her couch, set my arm up on a pillow, and handed me some water.
“You can stay as long as you want,” she said. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

My arm throbbed. My chest hurt. I cried for the life I thought I had.

But under the crying, there was this quiet relief.

That birthday party was the last one I ever hosted for him.

And the first day of the rest of my life.