PART 2: Half of Nothing
Gary said it had probably slipped behind the refrigerator.
But he started acting strangely. He brought me tea, asked about June, and was suddenly far more attentive than usual.
Then I looked in the newspaper.
All five numbers had matched.
The jackpot was $2,412,000.
I sat on the kitchen floor, staring at the results.
The next morning, Gary handed me divorce papers.
“I’ve been unhappy for years,” he announced. “The house has debts, and most of our assets are in my name.”
Then he added coldly, “Half of nothing is nothing.”
I looked at him.
“Okay, Gary.”
My lack of argument seemed to surprise him.
Two hours later, he drove off toward Atlanta.
I already had a good idea where he was headed.
So I took out the shoebox holding 987 signed lottery tickets, settled into my mother’s wicker chair, and waited.
At 2:47, my phone rang.
The lottery official asked whether I could identify the handwriting on the winning ticket.
“Of course,” I said.
I recited my full signature, the weekly note about June, and Mr. Mehta’s initials.
Then I explained that he had witnessed my purchases for nineteen years.
The claims center put the transaction on hold and began reviewing the ownership dispute.
Mr. Mehta confirmed my account and supplied the dated purchase records he’d carefully kept.
Gary’s attempt to claim the prize turned into an investigation.
But the lottery ticket wasn’t the only surprise.
