“For the tickets, Danny,” I would say softly.
He would sigh, annoyed by the errand, but he would take the money. On his lunch break, he would buy a specific set of Mega Millions lottery tickets. I didn’t play random numbers. I played a very specific, meticulously chosen sequence representing Thomas’s birthday, the date of our anniversary, and the day Daniel was born. It was a foolish, sentimental habit, a way to feel connected to the man who had always protected me.
That particular Friday in late November was no different.
Daniel had rushed into the kitchen, already late for a massive presentation, complaining loudly about the traffic. He tossed a small, white paper slip onto the massive marble island.
“Here are your tickets, Mom,” he muttered, grabbing his briefcase and not even pausing to kiss my cheek or say goodbye. “I don’t know why you waste your money.”
He slammed the door behind him.
I walked over to the kitchen island and picked up the lottery ticket. It felt light and insignificant. But a lifetime of cautious, methodical habits ingrained in me by decades of teaching and balancing grade books kicked in.
I reached into the pocket of my flour-dusted apron, pulled out a simple blue ballpoint pen, and flipped the ticket over. In neat, flowing, undeniable schoolteacher cursive, I signed my full, legal name across the designated line on the back.
Margaret Eleanor Hale.
I slipped the signed ticket back into the deep pocket of my apron and went back to scrubbing the grease out of Elise’s expensive roasting pan.
I didn’t know then, standing over the sudsy water, that by nightfall, that tiny, insignificant slip of paper would be the only wall standing between me and the absolute, terrifying abyss of homelessness.
