He was only twenty, but he looked like the world had aged him overnight.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pressing a folded stack of cash into my hand.
“It’s only $840.”
My throat tightened.
“Theo… where did you get this?”
His mouth trembled.
“I sold Grandpa’s tools.”
I couldn’t speak.
Those tools weren’t just metal and handles.
Grandpa had left them to him, and Theo had planned to use them one day to open his own garage.
He had sold his future so I might still have mine.
Then he placed a crumpled lottery ticket on top of the money.
“I bought this with the change,” he whispered.
“Maybe God owes us one miracle.”
I wanted to break down right there.
But the next morning, when I checked the numbers, I didn’t cry.
I didn’t scream.
I couldn’t even breathe.
Every number matched.
$2.4 million.
For a long time I just sat there staring at the ticket while Theo slept on my couch, exhausted from worry.
I didn’t call my parents.
I didn’t call Danica.
I didn’t celebrate.
I put on my brace, grabbed my crutches, and walked into one of the most expensive law firms downtown.
The attorney glanced at my worn jacket, then at the lottery ticket I slid across his desk.
“I want this claimed anonymously,” I said.
“And I want a forensic investigation into my parents’ finances.”
His eyes sharpened.
“You understand what you’re asking?”
