I stood by the front door, watching the thin layer of ice form on the porch steps, my breath visible in the cold air.
“Jason,” I called out, keeping my voice steady, “it’s getting icy. Can you please shovel and salt before bed? I don’t want to fall.”
He didn’t bother looking up from his phone, his fingers swiping endlessly across the screen.
“I’ll do it later,” he mumbled, as if the words were enough to clear the steps.
I glanced at the clock, noting the late hour, my unease growing.
“You said that an hour ago,” I reminded him, my tone edged with frustration.
He sighed, a sound heavy with the weight of a thousand dismissals.
“You’re being dramatic. It’s a couple of steps. I’ll do it. Stop nagging.”
I felt the knot in my stomach tighten, an all too familiar sensation that left me restless and anxious.
I went to bed, ears tuned to the quiet house, hoping for the sound of the door opening, the scrape of a shovel against the concrete.
But the only sound was the muffled tick of the clock, each second dragging me further into a restless sleep.
The next morning, with the party looming, I found myself on those same steps, a momentary lapse in attention leading to a painful fall.
The sharp snap of bone echoed in my ears, pain radiating through my arm.
I lay there, the cold seeping into my skin, realization dawning with a cruel clarity.
Jason’s only concern when he finally appeared was how my injury might affect his party.
“How bad is it?” he asked, eyes glancing briefly at my arm before scanning the yard, probably envisioning the setup.
His words hung in the frigid air, as I struggled to comprehend his indifference.
“It hurts,” I replied simply, cradling my arm. “But don’t worry, your party will still happen.”
A promise I intended to keep, though not in the way he expected.
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