I did not tell them that I already knew the six numbers by heart.
I went to bed early, leaving them to argue about the electric bill in the dark.
On Wednesday morning, Brenda was already running late for her shift.
Her coat was half-on as she fumbled with her car keys in the dim hallway.
I stood by the wooden table, holding the ticket in my hand.
I wanted her to feel some hope, to know that we were in this together.
I laid the ticket flat on the dark oak table by the front door.
“Keep the ticket safe, Brenda, it has my name on it.”
She did not look at the table, nor did she look at me.
“I do not have time for this, Mother,” she said, shoving her keys into her pocket and pushing past me.
The front door clicked shut behind her, leaving the small house completely still.
The white slip of paper sat on the dark oak table, catching the morning light.
