Most clients want a home inspection before finalizing their purchase. Sometimes, when they can’t be there, I step in as their stand-in. That’s exactly what happened on a bright spring day when I found myself at a vacant home, expecting a quick and easy inspection. No basement, only two levels, and no furniture to obstruct the view—it seemed like a breeze.

The inspector got to work while I went upstairs to turn on all the lights. With no clients around to ask questions, he was moving fast. Maybe a little too fast. That’s when I made the mistake of deciding to check his work. Wearing heels (lesson learned), I tripped on the first step and tumbled down the entire staircase, landing with a dramatic thud.

In the eerie silence of the empty house, I lay there, trying to catch my breath. Surely, the inspector heard me. I glanced up, expecting concern, maybe even a hand to help me up. Instead, he looked over, saw me sprawled at the bottom of the steps, and—without a word—went right back to his work. Unbelievable.

After a few minutes of reorienting myself, I stood up, dusted myself off, and decided to pretend nothing had happened. I walked over to observe his work, doing my best to maintain some dignity. That’s when I realized something was off.

At first, I was too focused on the inspection to notice, but the signs were there. A gash on my forehead. Blood trickling down my face. My torn pant leg. My broken heel. Oh, and I definitely noticed the broken heel—so I took off both shoes, which turned out to be another mistake. Because, of course, I managed to step right onto a piece of glass.

Not wanting to stain the carpet, I hopped my way to the bathroom, hoping to find something to stop the bleeding. But of course, the house was vacant, and there was nothing but toilet tissue. My purse, with all my emergency supplies, was in the car, and there was no way I was hopping that far. So I did what I could—I wrapped my foot up like a mummy with toilet tissue and nonchalantly hopped my way back to the inspector, who remained completely oblivious.

The rest of the inspection continued with me limping and hopping around the house, trying to maintain some level of professionalism while also dealing with my makeshift bandage and throbbing foot. To make matters worse, I didn’t even know this inspector—he was my client’s choice. But rest assured, after this experience, I never wanted to see him again. And years later, I never have.

Once the inspector finished and left, I locked up and started heading to my car. That’s when the real fun began. A neighbor across the street took one look at me and came running over. She asked if I had been assaulted, and I burst out laughing—probably not the reaction she expected. Naturally, she thought I was hysterical.

After I managed to explain what had actually happened and assured her I was fine, she insisted I take a look at myself in the side-view mirror of my car. Boy, was I a sight! Lucky for me, she turned out to be a nurse and patched me up as best she could.

This story ends with a black eye, swollen lip, five stitches, a trip to urgent care, and a discarded pair of heels. Lesson learned: Always wear practical shoes, watch your step, and maybe—just maybe—find an inspector who actually acknowledges a human crash landing in real-time.