And then there was the lottery ticket. Every week for the past 11 years, I had played the same numbers in the Ohio Lottery, Roland’s birthday, my birthday, the year we got married. It was a ritual more than a strategy. I held no real belief that I would win, but it connected me to something, to him, to the life we had built together.
I bought my ticket every Thursday at Garfield’s pharmacy on the corner of Fifth and Maple. Mrs. Garfield knew my order. Two scratchoffs and one multi-draw ticket. Same numbers, same day, same smile across the counter. The Thursday in question was the 6th of March. I remember the date because it was the anniversary of the day Roland proposed to me, which is why I had chosen to use his birthday in the first sequence.
I bought my ticket at Garfields as always, came home, set it on the kitchen counter next to my reading glasses, made myself a cup of chamomile tea, and sat down to watch the evening news. I fell asleep in the chair before the lottery numbers were announced. That happened sometimes. When I woke, it was past 10.