Pulling away. Jumping when her phone rang. Snapping at the boys.
Whispering behind closed doors. I thought maybe she was depressed again. Or overwhelmed.
I didn’t push. Then Thursday came. We were watching TV, some local news segment about a winning lottery ticket sold just down the road.
Same gas station we always went to. Someone in this neighborhood’s a millionaire, the anchor said. She shifted on the couch.
Didn’t smile. You ever buy from there? She asked, casual. Yeah, I said.
Grabbed one Monday with the groceries. Why? She shrugged. Just curious.
Didn’t even look at me. The next morning the ticket was gone. Not in the drawer.
Not behind the magnets. Not on the fridge. I looked everywhere, my heart sinking, with each cabinet I opened.
I didn’t ask her. I didn’t want to believe it. Because we always played together.
And she promised, if we ever won, we’d share it. But that’s the thing about promises made in comfort. They don’t always survive opportunity.
That lottery ticket wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a joke. It was mine.
I remember buying it so clearly. More clearly now than even what I had for breakfast that day. I’d been standing in line behind a man yelling on the phone, his voice full of rage, cursing about some broken deal.
I just wanted to get my milk, maybe a pack of gum, and get home. But something tugged at me. Maybe boredom, maybe fate.
The clerk smiled when I reached the counter and asked if I wanted a ticket. I almost said no. But I heard myself say, Yeah, sure, quick pick.
It cost me two dollars. I still had the receipt, tucked in my wallet. I left the ticket pinned to the fridge, with a magnet shaped like a smiley face.
A stupid, cheerful magnet holding up a future I didn’t know I was about to lose. When I got home, she was in one of her moods. Talking fast, pacing the kitchen, venting about a recruiter who ghosted her.
I didn’t interrupt. I never did. Just nodded and tried to soothe her with a fresh cup of tea and some leftover pie.
I bought a ticket, I said, trying to lighten the mood. Maybe we’ll finally get out of this old place. She didn’t laugh.
She didn’t even smile. She just said, Yeah, that’d be something, and kept scrolling through her phone. I stuck the ticket on the fridge and forgot about it.
She didn’t. That night, she made dinner. Something she rarely did.
Poured wine like we were celebrating something. Though she never said what. She even kissed me goodnight.
The next morning, the ticket was gone. She left the magnet. Just the magnet.
A hollow smile staring back at me every time I opened the fridge for milk. She didn’t mention it. I didn’t ask.
Because I wanted, desperately, to believe in her goodness. But that was before she came home with new shoes. Before she started whispering on the phone, pacing the hallway at midnight.
Before she shut the door in my face and told me she needed space to think. I kept quiet. I hoped.
I waited. Until I didn’t. Because days later, she stood in the middle of the living room.
My living room. Grinning like a child on Christmas morning. And said, You’re not gonna believe this.
She held up a check. Ten million dollars. I won, she said, voice trembling with glee.
I actually freaking won. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.
I just looked at her. And that’s when I knew. She was lying to my face.
Because she never buys tickets. Never carries cash. Hates waiting in line.
Hates small talk with cashiers. And yet somehow, suddenly, she had the winning numbers? I forced a smile. Wow…
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