Take Me: My Win, My Money
A story of luck, ego, and the moment everything changed.
Take me to the day the numbers matched. The scratch of a ticket, the widening of eyes, the breath caught in disbelief. $50,000. Not life-changing, but certainly life-shifting. My husband held the ticket like a trophy, like proof that the universe had finally smiled on him. And when I leaned in—half laughing, half stunned—he said it: “My win, my money.”
Take me into that moment. The words weren’t cruel, but they cut. Not because I wanted the money, but because I thought we were a we. We’d shared bills, dreams, setbacks. We’d built a life together, brick by brick. But suddenly, this windfall wasn’t ours—it was his. And something in me went quiet.
He bought things. A new watch. A weekend getaway with his buddies. He was generous with himself, stingy with grace. I didn’t ask for a dime. I didn’t want to beg for what should’ve been shared. I watched. I waited. I wondered.
Then one day, he came home pale. Not sick. Not tired. Shaken. He dropped his keys, sat down without a word. I asked what happened. He hesitated. Then he told me.
Take me into his confession. He’d been approached by someone at the gas station—someone who knew about the win. Knew the amount. Knew where he lived. They’d followed him. Confronted him. Demanded a cut. Threatened him. Said things that made his skin crawl.
He realized, in that moment, that the money had made him visible—but not invincible. That luck can turn to liability. That ego can paint a target on your back. And suddenly, the win didn’t feel like a win anymore.
Take me into the aftermath. He apologized—not just for the money, but for the mindset. For forgetting that partnership isn’t paused by fortune. For letting pride speak louder than love. He asked if we could start over. Not with the money, but with the meaning.
We sat at the kitchen table, the same one where we’d budgeted groceries and planned vacations we couldn’t afford. And we talked. About trust. About fear. About how easy it is to let a windfall fracture what was built to last.
Take me into the lesson. That money doesn’t reveal character—it amplifies it. That a lottery ticket can be a mirror, showing you who you are when no one’s watching. That “my win” can quickly become our loss if selfishness takes the wheel.
He transferred half the winnings into our joint account. Not because I asked. Because he understood. Because he wanted to rebuild—not just the balance, but the bond.
Take me into the quiet healing. The way we started talking more. Laughing again. Planning—not around money, but around meaning. We donated some. We saved some. We used a little to fix the leaky roof we’d been ignoring. And every time we spent, we did it together.
He still jokes about the win. But now he says, “Our luck, our life.” And I smile. Because the real prize wasn’t the money. It was the moment he came home pale, and chose humility over hubris.
Take me there.
To the gas station where the ticket was bought.
To the living room where the truth was told.
To the heart of a marriage that learned how to weather both drought and downpour.
Because sometimes, the jackpot isn’t what you win.
It’s what you learn.
