You need real rest. Do you have someone at home to care for you?”

I stared at my lap, the painkillers softening the edges of everything. “Yes,” I lied. “My husband.”

They wrapped my right arm from knuckles to bicep. It felt like a dead weight strapped to my side, and every small movement rolled nausea through me.

It was nearly 2:00 a.m. when an Uber dropped me back in my driveway.

I fumbled the lock with my left hand and pushed the door open. The house was quiet. Jason was still on the couch, the TV playing a muted infomercial, a glass of whiskey resting on his chest.

He turned his head lazily, his eyes scanning my bulky cast and sling. He didn’t get up. He didn’t ask if I was in pain. He didn’t apologize for shoving me into the ice.