but she never read the name on the tickeet.

Even now, sometimes in the stillness of the night, I hear her voice in my memory:  old witch.

But those words no longer hurt me. They no longer have any power. For they were never my curse, they were his. His greed, his pride, his inability to love the woman who had given him everything.

I survived his rejection and thrived.

Above my fireplace, framed for all to see, hangs this old winning ticket. Not because of the fortune it brought me, but because of the truth it represents:

In the darkest moments of my life, fate had already chosen its side. My name was written on the winning hand from the start.