She called me an "old hag" after I won the lottery, but she never read the name on the ticket.

The weight of silence

I wanted to scream. To remind her of the years I'd paid her rent, the nights I'd babysat her kids while she went from job to job, the savings I'd sacrificed so she could "start fresh." I wanted to scream that I'd carried her life on my shoulders.

But I didn't say anything.

I bent down, gathering my clothes with hands that were shaking, not from weakness, but from rage. She thought I would crawl. She thought I would accept the insult.

What she didn't know was that she had overlooked something small, something that would change everything.

She never read the back of the ticket.

A world she thought she owned

Within days, her face was everywhere. Newspapers called her "a young single mother who defied the odds." Cameras immortalized her, bundled up in designer clothes, clinking glasses of champagne, her smile dazzling. Social media crowned her queen.

I watched it all from the guest room of my sister's modest house. The old television hummed and flickered, but the images were clear enough: my daughter, unrecognizable, her pride brighter than the gold jewelry on her wrists.

Rage boiled inside me, but I remained silent. For, hidden in the drawer next to me, in a yellow envelope, was the truth.

The real winning ticket.

I'd bought it with my own money at the local gas station that afternoon. I'd left it on the kitchen table, signed on the back:  María Delgado.  She'd snatched it up without a glance, unaware that the name printed on the check would no longer be hers.

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