I always sign them, I said slowly, before I sit down. It’s a habit Roland taught me. He said, ‘Sign it the minute you get home because if you win and it isn’t signed, it’s just paper with numbers.’ And this time, I paused. I pressed my memory. I had been tired that day. My left knee had been aching from the cold snap.
I had been thinking about the anniversary of Roland’s proposal. Had I signed it before the tea or after? or had I set it down intending to sign it and then forgotten? I did not know. That uncertainty was the first real fear I felt. Not the fear of losing the money, but the fear of losing the truth.
Because without the signature, without the name in my handwriting across the back of that ticket, the legal claim became complicated in a way that favored whoever was currently holding the ticket and standing inside my house wearing my son’s face. I stood up. My knees protested. I ignored them. I need to think, I said.