The paramedics splinted my arm and took me to the ER. As we passed the window, I saw Ethan on the couch.
At the hospital, X-rays confirmed a fracture. My arm was wrapped from hand to shoulder.
“No lifting. No driving. No heavy cooking,” the doctor said. “You need rest.”
I went home with painkillers and instructions.
Ethan was still on the couch, TV on, phone in hand.
He glanced at the cast. “Wow. That’s rough.”
I waited for concern. It didn’t come.
“How are we supposed to do this now?” he asked instead. “My birthday. Twenty people. You were making that roast.”
I stared at him. “I broke my arm because you didn’t shovel.”
“You should’ve been more careful,” he said. “It’s not my fault.”
Then he said it—calmly, confidently.
“It’s your duty. You’re the hostess. If you ruin this, it’ll be embarrassing for me.”
That was the moment something shifted.
This wasn’t new. I cooked every holiday. Cleaned for every event. Took pride in his compliments while he took credit.
I was his wife on paper and his staff in reality.
“I’ll handle it,” I said calmly.
He smirked. “Knew you would.”
That night, after he left to drink with friends, I sat at the kitchen table and made three calls.