My name is Isabella Cruz. I’m thirty-two, and for years I believed my life was small and ordinary: a modest home in Los Angeles, a hardworking husband, a three-year-old son, and a routine built on meals, laundry, and dreams I kept postponing.
My husband was Daniel. He ran a small construction company that, according to him, was always on the verge of collapsing. He said all the money went to materials, debts, and payroll. I believed everything—his long hours, his bad temper, his constant stress.
I had quit my job after our son, Mateo, was born. Since then, my world revolved around him. I thought love meant holding everything together, no matter what.
Everything changed on a Tuesday.
That morning, while sorting receipts, I found a lottery ticket I had bought the day before during a rainstorm. I barely remembered it. Still, I checked the numbers online while Mateo played nearby.
Five. Twelve. Twenty-three.
I glanced at the ticket.
Thirty-four. Forty-five. Bonus number: five.
I checked again.
My hands started shaking. My phone slipped from my fingers. I sat on the floor, unable to breathe.
Fifty million dollars.