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.
