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.

Not figuratively. Literally.

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.”

He didn’t even glance up from his phone.

“I’ll get to it later,” he said.