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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.
The night before his birthday weekend, I stood at our front door, staring down at the porch steps as a thin layer of ice began to form.
“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.”
“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.”
It never did.
