I never imagined that the day my own daughter became a millionaire, her first move would be to treat me like a burden. I stood there, in the rain, mascara running down my cheeks, watching the lights of her new mansion blind me. It wasn’t the storm that bothered me…
That was her voice.
“You won’t see a cent of my money, old ghost!”
Then, the sharp crash of my suitcase against the concrete. The clothes I had packed that morning, full of folded clothes in the hope that we would finally be reconciled. It opened up in the spotless hallway of her house like an open wound: socks, underwear, my favorite old blouse, all strewn across the floor.
My toothbrush went down the drain, as if it knew I no longer belonged there. She didn’t lift a finger. And behind him, with his arms crossed and a proud smile, was his new girlfriend, barely older than his oldest son. The mansion still smelled of fresh paint; I hadn’t even taken down the “sold out” sign.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stood there, letting the rain soak my gray hair. It was a good thing his kids weren’t there to see their grandmother thrown away like she was trash.
“You’re a parasite,” he shouted from the doorway. I worked hard for this. I’m not going to hide it from you.
“Did he work hard?” I thought, jaw clenched. I paid his rent for four years. I raised his kids while he bounced from job to job. I gave up my retirement so he could start over. Over and over. But I didn’t say anything. Not yet.
I picked up my belongings one by one, my hands shaking, not from weakness, but from the cold. I closed the suitcase against my chest and backed away. Mud covered my shoes, but I stood up straight. He thought he was going to beg again. That I was crawling. I didn’t know I had made a mistake. A small mistake, but one that cost him everything.
Because he didn’t look at the name on the ticket.
A week later …
A week later, the news was out: “Young single mother wins $10 million in state lottery drawing.” There were pictures of her in all the local newspapers, TV interviews, social media posts where she appeared hugging her boyfriend and smiling like she owned his whole life. I watched all of this from the small television in the guest room of my brother’s house, where I had hidden after he kicked me out. My chest was filled with anger, but I said nothing. Waited.
I put the yellow envelope in the drawer of the bedside table. Inside was the original ticket, the real one, bought with my savings that afternoon when I stopped by the gas station. I didn’t give it to him. I didn’t give it to him. I just left it on the kitchen table, confident that he, as always, would look at it and assume it was his. And so it happened. He never looked at the back. He didn’t notice the signature. Because on that bill was written my name in my own handwriting: María Delgado.
The days passed and it seemed increasingly impossible to reach my daughter. The calls to the old number had disappeared; he had changed his cell phone. The grandchildren were with their father, almost forgotten in the euphoria of money. And he showed himself at parties, in clothes he couldn’t afford, posing with glasses of champagne. Every time I saw him on the news, it was as if I didn’t know him anymore. She was not the woman I had carried in my arms or the girl who cried in my lap after every failed love. She was someone else. A stranger.
On the other hand, I remained silent.
At the end of that week I received a call that would change everything. It was from the state law firm. The tone was formal, but they could not hide their discomfort:
“Mrs. Delgado, we have received notification that the winning ticket is in your name. We need to submit it for final verification.
I paused, the phone shaking in my hand. My heart pounded. He hadn’t dreamed any of this. It was real. He hadn’t checked.
The day of the appointment was raining, just like the night he’d sent me away. I put on my old brown coat, which he often criticized for being “old-fashioned.” I walked with what dignity I had left, even though inside I was consumed by a mixture of sadness and triumph.
When I entered the office, the cameras were ready. A large check was ready with my name on it. “Ten million dollars,” it said in gold ink. The flashes blinded me, and for the first time in years I felt someone looking at me. Not as a burden. Not as a shadow. But as someone who still mattered.
A few minutes later my daughter appeared, next to him, and shouted that there had been a mistake. That the money was hers. That he was the first to claim it. But the lawyers were clear: I signed the ticket. He never had any legal rights to it. The cameras captured the exact moment she fell, the makeup running down her cheeks, the anger in her eyes as she realized everything was gone.
I said nothing. There was nothing to explain.
Along with the money came the peace she had lost. I got my house back, I tidied up my garden, I traveled to places I had always dreamed of. But it wasn’t about the money itself. It was about justice. In truth, I had simply decided that my life would give me the last word.
For my daughter, on the other hand, life taught her a lesson she didn’t want to hear: that greed and pride come at a price. She eventually lost her boyfriend, her mansion and, sadly, the children who had made me move forward. They came back to me. And even though my nights are still scarred by what he told me, I found in his laughter a reason to heal.
Now, when I close my eyes, I still remember his voice calling me “the old witch”. But it doesn’t hurt anymore. Because I know that the real curse is not mine, but his: the inability to love the person who gave him everything.
I’m still here, surrounded by my grandchildren, in a warm house where no one throws me out in the rain. And every time I look at the old framed ticket above the fireplace, I smile. Not because of the millions. But because it reminds me that even in the darkest times, life has an ace up its sleeve.