Two days passed without a call from Linda.
I kept my phone close, but I tried not to watch it every minute.
I cleaned the kitchen, changed the sheets, and watered the plants on the porch.
Ordinary work gave the hours some shape.
When my mind returned to Gary, I brought it back to what I could do that day.
I had questions for a lawyer, and I began making calls.
I wanted someone to explain the divorce papers before I signed anything.
The first person I spoke with asked me to bring the documents and a list of our assets and debts.
I explained that I did not yet have a clear picture of the accounts Gary had described.
"Then don't assume his description is complete," she said. "Bring what you have, and we'll identify what needs to be verified."
I wrote that down.
It was the same principle Linda had been using.
Do not turn somebody else's claim into a fact simply because they say it confidently.
The appointment was set for the following week.
That afternoon, I called Mr. Mehta to see whether the lottery office had contacted him.
"They did," he said.
My back straightened.
"What did they ask?"
"They asked about your tickets and my initials. I told them about the routine I remember."
"Did they ask about the winning ticket?"
"They asked whether I remembered initialing it. I told them I remember initialing your tickets over the years, but I cannot claim to remember every individual ticket after so much time."
I appreciated his honesty.
"Did they seem satisfied?"
"I don't know, Patty. They were polite. They asked questions and wrote down my answers."
That sounded like Linda.
I thanked him for taking the call.
"Your mother would have liked that you kept your records," he said.
The mention of my mother caught me off guard.
"I think she would have liked that I kept my name," I said.
"She always had strong opinions about names."
I laughed softly.
"She certainly did."
After we hung up, I stood at the sink and looked out at the yard.
My mother had been gone for years, but I could still hear her voice when I thought about signing those tickets.
Always keep something that's yours.
Remember that your name matters.
She had not been talking about millions of dollars.
She had been talking about the part of a person that could be overlooked when everyone else made decisions for them.
The next morning, Linda called.
"Mrs. Dunn, I wanted to let you know we've received the additional information we requested."
I held the phone against my ear.
"From Mr. Mehta?"
"Yes, among other materials."
I waited for her to continue.
"The information is being evaluated alongside the claim and the records you've provided. I can't share a final conclusion at this stage."
"Of course."
"There is one thing I would like to clarify. Did you ever give your husband permission to claim a ticket in your name?"
"No."
My answer came without hesitation.
"Did you ever tell him the winning ticket was his?"
"No. I didn't know it had won until I read the newspaper. By then, the ticket was missing."
"Thank you. And you never gave him the ticket to take to the claims center?"
"No."
Linda made a note.
"That addresses the question I needed to ask."
I wanted to ask what Gary had told her.
I wanted to know how a man who had lived beside me for thirty-four years had explained a ticket bearing my full name and a note in my handwriting.
But I knew she might not be able to tell me.
So I asked the only question that mattered.
"Do you need anything else from me?"
"Not at present. Please keep your phone available in case we need to follow up."
"I will."
After the call, I wrote down the questions and my answers.
Then I closed the notebook and went to visit June.
She was sitting up when I arrived, her hair brushed and a blanket folded over her knees.
She looked tired, but her eyes were brighter.
"You're late," she said.
"I brought you the crackers you like."
"That isn't an excuse."
I put the bag on the table beside her bed.
"Then I apologize."
She gave me a look that reminded me of our childhood, when she had been the younger sister who insisted on having the final word.
We talked about the hospital, the food, and the nurse who had made her laugh.
For a while, I could almost forget everything waiting at home.
Then June looked at me again.
"Patty, you promised you wouldn't keep everything from me."
I lowered my eyes to the bag in my lap.
"I know."
"Is this about the divorce?"
"Yes."
"And something else?"
I took a slow breath.
"The lottery ticket I bought last Friday was missing. It turned out to be the winning ticket."
June stared at me.
"How much?"
"Two million, four hundred twelve thousand dollars."
She put a hand over her mouth.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, "And Gary?"
"He tried to claim it."
Her expression changed.
"What?"
"The lottery office called me. The signature on the ticket didn't match his identification. My name was on it, along with the note I wrote and Mr. Mehta's initials."
June's face had gone pale.
"Did he take it?"
"I believe he did, but I didn't see him take it. I'm being careful about what I say because I want to be honest."
She looked at me for a long time.
"That sounds like you."
"What does?"
"Even now, you're worrying about being fair to him."
I had no answer.
June reached for my hand.
"I'm not asking you to say anything you can't prove. I'm asking you not to make excuses for him."
I felt the sting behind my eyes.
"I don't know how to stop doing that all at once."
"You don't have to do it all at once."
We sat together for a while, holding hands.
She asked me what the lottery office had said, and I explained the review as carefully as I could.
I told her about the old tickets, the timeline, and the conversation with Mr. Mehta.
I told her the claim was still under review.
June listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she squeezed my fingers.
"You have your records," she said. "And you have your name."
I thought of the pineapple magnet at home.
"Yes," I said. "I do."
I stayed until she grew tired.
On the drive home, I thought about how much of my life had been spent managing other people's comfort.
I had softened Gary's sharp words when telling the children about an argument.
I had explained his moods as work stress.
I had told myself that silence was sometimes kinder than confrontation.
Some of that had been ordinary compromise.
Some of it had become a habit that made it easier for him to take more than he gave.
I did not regret every year we had spent together.
But I could no longer use the good years to erase what he had done now.
That evening, I took the divorce papers to the table and placed them beside the notebook.
I had an appointment with a lawyer, and I would wait for that advice before making decisions.
I would not rush because Gary had rushed.
I would not sign because he had smiled.
I would not let his confidence become my evidence.
The phone rang just as I was putting the papers away.
It was Linda.
"Mrs. Dunn, I wanted to let you know that the review has progressed. We may need to speak with you again, but I don't want you to mistake that for a final determination."
"I understand."
"We're working through the remaining questions."
I thanked her.
When the call ended, I did not try to guess what the next call would bring.
I washed my cup, dried it, and set it in the cupboard.
Then I checked the lock on the back door.
The house was quiet.
For the first time, the quiet did not feel like waiting for Gary to come home.
It felt like time I could use for myself.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: The Truth Did Not Arrive With a Trumpet, but It Gave Me Back Something Gary Thought He Could Take
The Morning My Husband Walked Away Smiling, and the Two-Dollar Habit He Had Never Bothered to Understand
Part 11 of 12
