PART 17 – I Had Signed My Name on Every Ticket for Nineteen Years, but I Was Still Unprepared for What the Truth Would Mean

The next morning, I found myself standing in front of the refrigerator again.

I had gone into the kitchen to get milk for my coffee.

Instead, I was looking at the pineapple magnet.

It had become a habit I couldn't seem to break.

I would glance at the empty space beneath it and remember the ticket that had disappeared.

Then I would remember Gary's hand moving toward his back pocket before he drove away.

I still couldn't say exactly what had happened in our kitchen that week.

I hadn't seen him take the ticket.

I hadn't seen him sign it.

I hadn't watched him put it in his wallet.

But I knew what I had done.

Every Friday, I bought a ticket.

Every Friday, I signed it.

Every Friday, I placed it beneath that magnet.

That was the part I could remember without any uncertainty.

I poured my coffee and sat down.

The newspaper lay folded beside the fruit bowl.

I had read the winning numbers so many times that I could picture the printed line without opening the page.

I didn't need to check them anymore.

I knew they matched.

What I didn't know was what would happen to the claim.

I couldn't make the answer come sooner by sitting at the table.

So I drank my coffee and watched the morning light move across the floor.

After breakfast, I went outside to water the tomatoes.

The plant I had tied up a few days earlier was holding its fruit better.

I checked the string and tightened it slightly.

Then I stood back to look at the garden.

It wasn't much.

A few rows of plants, a patch of weeds, and a small shed with a door that stuck when the weather was damp.

But I had cared for that garden for years.

Gary had never been interested in it.

He occasionally complained about the mud on the porch, but he rarely asked what I was growing.

I had stopped expecting him to.

That thought stayed with me as I put away the watering can.

I had stopped expecting so many things from him that I hadn't noticed how much I had given up asking for.

I went inside and made a list of household expenses.

I wanted to understand what I needed to cover over the coming weeks.

The mortgage was still due.

There were utilities to pay.

There was food to buy.

None of those things had disappeared just because Gary had left.

I wrote down what I knew, then placed the list beside the folder containing the divorce papers.

I wasn't going to make a decision about our marriage based on the hope of winning money.

Even if the lottery claim turned out differently than I expected, I still had to face the fact that Gary had chosen to leave.

That hurt in a way the numbers couldn't fix.

I had spent years thinking that if we could get through the next difficult period, things might improve.

Once the children were older.

Once the bills were lower.

Once work became less stressful.

There had always been a reason to wait.

Now I wondered how much of my life I had spent waiting for the right time to ask for more.

I put the pencil down.

The question had no easy answer.

I went to the sink and washed a plate that had been sitting there since breakfast.

Then I wiped the counter.

The phone remained silent.

I checked it once before lunch.

Nothing.

I checked it again after lunch.

Still nothing.

I began to feel foolish for looking so often.

Linda had told me the claim needed review.

She hadn't promised a call that day.

I had to let her do her work.

That afternoon, I sat on the porch with a glass of iced tea.

The road was quiet.

I watched a car turn at the far end of the street and disappear.

I thought about the first time Gary had laughed at my lottery ticket.

We had been younger then.

The children were still at home, and money was tight enough that I counted every dollar before grocery shopping.

He had stood in the kitchen doorway while I wrote the numbers on a scrap of paper.

He had asked whether I planned to retire on lottery winnings.

I had laughed.

I hadn't wanted to argue about two dollars.

Looking back, I realized that I had often laughed when something hurt me because I didn't want to make the moment uncomfortable.

I had told myself that being easygoing was a virtue.

Sometimes it was.

Sometimes it was simply a way of keeping quiet.

I finished my tea and went inside.

I took the divorce envelope from the table and placed it in the drawer.

I wasn't ready to throw it away.

I wasn't ready to sign anything.

But I didn't want it sitting in front of me every time I entered the kitchen.

The newspaper stayed beside the fruit bowl.

I wanted the winning numbers where I could find them.

Not because I needed to check them again, but because I didn't want to pretend this wasn't happening.

The phone rang late that afternoon.

I reached for it immediately.

The caller was not Linda.

It was a routine call from someone whose name I recognized, and I answered politely.

When the conversation ended, I sat back down.

I felt disappointed.

Then I felt ashamed of the disappointment.

I couldn't expect every ring to bring the answer I wanted.

I set the phone on the table.

For the rest of the evening, I left it there.

I cooked dinner, washed my plate, and watered the plants one last time before dark.

Then I returned to the porch.

The air had cooled.

I held my glass in both hands and looked toward the road.

I didn't know whether the claim would be approved, delayed, or rejected.

I didn't know what Gary was telling himself.

But I knew what I had done.

I had bought those tickets.

I had signed them.

And I had never expected the habit to become a test of whether my own husband would tell me the truth.

Click here to continue reading: PART 18: The Longer I Waited for the Claims Office, the More I Realized That Winning Money Was Not the Only Thing Gary Had Taken From Me