And no, that’s not a metaphor. That’s exactly what happened.
The night before his birthday weekend, I stood at our front door, staring at the icy porch steps. A thin sheen of ice had already formed—the kind that looks harmless until it steals your feet.
“Jason,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “It’s getting icy. Can you please shovel and salt before bed? I don’t want to fall.”
He didn’t look up from his phone.
“I’ll do it later,” he muttered.
“You said that an hour ago.”
“You’re being dramatic,” he replied. “It’s a couple of steps. Stop nagging.”
I went to bed uneasy, listening for the scrape of a shovel that never came.
The next morning, running late, coffee in my right hand, bag in my left, I fumbled with the lock. My foot hit pure ice.
I flew backward. My elbow slammed into the step. My right arm took the full impact. I heard the crack, felt the fire-hot pain, and screamed.
Our neighbor, Mrs. Patel, ran out. “Don’t move. Can you feel your fingers?”
Through tears, I said, “Yeah. It hurts so bad.”
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