PART 3: He had laughed harder
But I hadn’t been joking. “Linda,” I continued, “the ticket your office has should have my signature on it. Patricia Dunn. And underneath that, it should have the date of purchase and those exact words.”
I heard papers shuffling on the other end.
Then Linda said something that made me sit up straighter.
“That’s exactly what’s written here.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Not because I was surprised that Gary had taken my ticket. I’d suspected that since Wednesday.
I was surprised that he had been foolish enough to take it to the lottery office without even checking the back.
“Mrs. Dunn, your husband is insisting that he purchased this ticket himself. He says you are his wife and that you must have signed it for him as a joke.”
I nearly laughed.
Gary had spent thirty-four years explaining to me that I was too forgetful to remember where I put my purse, too emotional to make decisions, and too foolish to understand money.
Now, suddenly, he wanted the lottery officials to believe that I had signed his ticket.
“Linda,” I said, “I can tell you the exact date I bought that ticket, the gas station where I bought it, and the five numbers I’ve been playing every Friday since my children were little. Would you like me to?”
“Yes, ma’am. That would be helpful.”
I gave her the information.
She asked me to hold.
I could hear muffled voices through the phone. Then Gary’s voice rose above the others.
“She’s lying! She’s always been jealous of me! I’ve been the one paying the bills for thirty-four years!”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
Even now, with millions of dollars sitting between us, he couldn’t stop himself from turning our entire marriage into a competition he needed to win.
When Linda returned, her voice had become more formal.
“Mrs. Dunn, we are placing a temporary hold on the claim while we verify ownership. We’d like you to come to our office with identification and any records you may have regarding the ticket.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you. And Mrs. Dunn?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t discuss the ticket with anyone else until our review is complete.”
“I understand.”
When I hung up, I sat perfectly still for a long time.
Then I went to the bedroom and opened the bottom drawer of my old dresser.
Inside was a shoebox filled with nineteen years of small, ordinary things.
Receipts from the gas station.
Old calendars with Fridays circled in blue ink.
A notebook where I’d recorded every set of numbers I’d ever played.
And beneath them all, tucked into a yellow envelope, was a folded piece of paper that Gary had never seen.
I took it out carefully.
It was a handwritten note from my mother, dated three weeks before she died.
Patty, never let a man convince you that being a good wife means being a silent woman. Love is something you give freely. Your dignity is something you must protect yourself.
I read those words twice.
Then I folded the note and put it back.
Tomorrow, I would go to the lottery office.
But before that, I needed to make one phone call of my own.
I picked up my phone and dialed the number of the attorney who had helped my sister with her medical paperwork.
“Hello, this is Patricia Dunn. I need to speak with someone about a divorce, a missing lottery ticket, and a husband who thinks he can take everything from me.”
