I broke my arm the day before my husband’s big birthday party, and the only thing he cared about was how it might ruin his celebration. I still made sure the party happened—just not the way he expected.
I broke my arm because my husband, Ethan Moore, refused to shovel the snow.
That’s not a figure of speech. That’s exactly what happened.
The night before his birthday weekend, I stood at our front door staring at the porch steps, already slick with ice.
“Ethan,” I said, “it’s freezing. Can you shovel and salt before bed? I don’t want to fall.”
He didn’t look up from his phone.
“I’ll do it later.”
“You said that an hour ago.”
He sighed like I was exhausting him. “You’re being dramatic. It’s just a couple of steps.”
I went to bed angry, listening for the door.
It never opened.
The next morning, I was late for work. I’m right-handed, juggling my bag and coffee while fumbling with the lock using my left hand. I stepped outside and hit pure ice.
There was no time to grab the railing.
My feet flew out from under me. My elbow slammed into the step, my weight crashing onto my right arm. I heard the crack before I felt the pain.
It was instant and blinding. I screamed.
Our neighbor, Mrs. Reynolds, rushed out in her robe. “Don’t move. Can you feel your fingers?”
I nodded through tears. She tried calling Ethan. No answer.
We were ten feet from the front door. He didn’t pick up.
The paramedics splinted my arm and took me to the ER. As we passed the window, I saw Ethan on the couch.
