I know most people say that if they win the lottery, they would just up and quit their mundane job. Not me. For one, I am afraid that I am somehow reading the ticket incorrectly, and that I am not really a winner. And then I would lose my almost three years of seniority at my job and be put back on weekend hours every weekend. And, of course, if I wasn’t a winner, not only would I look like a complete idiot, how would I pay Ms. Mitchell? The other reason I don’t just up and quit is because I don’t want to give my mother anything to be suspicious over. More than a half-dozen times I almost told my mom about the ticket, but I’m more excited about surprising her with an actual winning check and my first payout.

On Monday morning, I call Ms. Mitchell’s office from the parking lot at work during my morning break. Her secretary tells me that she has a last-minute opening at one tomorrow afternoon. I confirm the address and am relieved to note that her office is less than a mile from work.

Next, I walk into my boss’s office and explain to him that I have an ‘emergency appointment’ at one tomorrow afternoon and ask if I can take my lunch at one instead of twelve. I am hoping that he interprets ‘emergency appointment’ as something related to ‘lady problems,’ something that he’s very squeamish about. He blushes and tells me that it’s okay, and he’ll make sure my register and phone are covered.

Getting through the day is tougher than getting through Friday afternoon was after finding the winning prize. But somehow, with my little—or not so little—secret, it becomes bearable counting the hours until I can be a free woman.

I head home but stop at the grocery store to pick up some food for dinner. I decide to make chicken parmesan. Usually, I’d buy thighs because they are more affordable, but today, though, I choose breasts. I also buy fresh, not frozen, broccoli, pasta, and a couple of bottles of Coca-Cola, no store brand today!

I’m excited to get home and prepare a nice dinner for my mom and me. When I pull up to our freshly landscaped home, I smile, and my heart feels full of hope. But when I head inside, my blood runs cold.

“Heeeyyy, baby gurlll,” my mom slurs, and a slow, lopsided grin pulls at her mouth. She’s sitting on the floor painting her toenails. It’s a sloppy job as if it were done by a three-year-old. Her eyes are dull yet glassy, and her cheeks and nose are as rosy as if she’d been out in cold weather for a few hours—the flush in her cheeks nearly erases the bruising on her cheek.

“Hi, Mom,” I say tentatively. “Didn’t you go to work today?”

“Took a perzonal day,” she slurs with a wave of her hand. “I had such a headache.” She picks up the glass of clear liquid from the side table. I watch in horror as my mother drains the glass, and my dreams go up in smoke.

My eyes dart all around looking for clues as to what’s in her glass, silently praying that it’s water, and she’s just tired—yeah, tired, and that’s why she’s slurring and a bit slap-happy. But no. I spot a bottle of cheap vodka on the kitchen counter. Where did she get it? Was it in the house? Why didn’t I sweep the place and dump everything? Or did she go out and buy it? Where did she get the money?

My lottery ticket!

Panic races through my body, and I run to my bedroom with my mom calling out behind me asking if I want her to paint my toes. I shout, “No!” over my shoulder and silently curse myself for not keeping the ticket with me at all times. I shut my door and tuck a chair under the knob, so if Mom were to get up and come after me, she wouldn’t be able to get in. I run to my Alice book and open it. Relief floods my body when I spot my ticket still safe and sound.

Yet, as much as I’m relieved, I’m also heartbroken. My mother can’t be a part of my future right now. She needs to get better. And get better for herself. She’ll need to hit rock bottom to do that. I can’t be around to watch it happen. I remind myself of Al-Anon’s Three Cs—I didn’t cause it, I can’t control it, and I can’t cure it. Maybe if I, her enabler, leave, that will be her rock bottom, and she can work toward getting better.

At a quarter to one on Tuesday, I clock out and hop on my bike to make my way to Ms. Mitchell’s office. As I peddle toward Elm Street, I go over my new plan for my winnings.

Waiting nervously in the luxurious waiting room, I look at the magazines that are on display—Forbes, Financial Advisor, Probate & Property, Prevention Magazine, and AARP. I thumb through a binder that explains aspects of estate planning. I check my cross-body purse, the one I’d been wearing all day.

During the morning, I had checked the purse no fewer than ten times making sure the lottery ticket is still there. I almost didn’t bring the ticket, but then got nervous that my mom or a random burglar would break in and find it. Then what? I would also have to prove to Ms. Mitchell that I’d won.

“Ms. Jameson? Ms. Mitchell will see you now,” the secretary says, smiling kindly at me.

I stand and head to the door that proudly displays the name ROSE MITCHELL, ESQ. on it. The secretary opens the door for me, and I step in. I quickly note the massive wall to the right that is all shelved, and not just shelved, but stocked with books. They aren’t my kind of books—these look very “lawyer-y”—but they are beautiful all the same. And they are all the same. All leather-bound, some red leather, some brown, and others black, some have more than one color of leather, but all are stamped with gold with a title and roman numerals on the spines.

“You must be Crystal Jameson,” a stunning brunette says softly. She’s sitting behind an impressive desk but stands and smiles warmly at me. I now see that she’s very stylishly dressed like something out of a fashion magazine, and I think to myself that she must have been a beauty queen when she was my age. I nod, and she introduces herself. “I’m Rose Mitchell.”

She walks up to me and extends her hand. I take it and shake it along with returning her kind smile. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Mitchell."

“Please call me Rose,” she says with a gentle tone and walks us to a round table with a few chairs. We take a seat, and she folds her perfectly manicured hands on the table. “What brings you in today?”

“Okay… Rose.” It feels weird calling an adult by her first name. “Judith and Jerry Schwarzkopf recommended you.”

“Such a sweet couple. I’ll have to thank them for the referral. How can I help you?”

Nerves racing through my body and brain, I ask the first question that comes to mind. “Everything I tell you is confidential, right? You can’t tell anyone?”

She smiles politely, yet slightly unsettled, and says, “Of course.”

After a moment, I nod and grab my purse, take it off my shoulder, and set it on the table. She eyes it nervously as I slide the zipper open. Seeing her fear, I hold my hands up in self-defense and say, “I swear. I don’t have a weapon in here.”

She chuckles nervously and smiles. I smile back and reach into my purse and pull out the blue and silver card that has occupied my thoughts for practically every minute of the past sixty hours. With a shaky hand, I pass it to her and say two simple words, “I won.”

She looks over the ticket quickly, blinking, and then she starts to laugh, and I’m confused. Had I read the ticket wrong? Oh no! All the dreams I had… The fresh start. The meals. School. Poof! Gone. And now I have to pay this lawyer for her time from my meager wages on an already strapped budget.

“This is amazing!” she says, still giggling. “Congratulations!”

It takes me a moment to realize what she’s said, and once it registers, I relax and smile. “Thank you.”

“So, how can I help you?”

“Well, I don’t know what to do. I don’t want my face plastered all over the place. I don’t want… you know… people begging for money from me.”

“Don’t fret, yet. Makes perfect sense. I’ll look into it.”

“Thank you. I’m planning on moving. I was thinking St. Louis.”

“Nearby, but I might recommend you stay in Illinois. You’ll be paying taxes in two states if you move to Missouri.”

Oh? “So, Chicago?”

“Big city,” she says.

“I just think that if I stay here or another small town, everyone will know that I won. I think it’ll be easier not to be a spectacle if I’m in a large city.”

“Fair enough. Good thinking,” she acknowledges.

“Also, I want to pay off my mother’s home. I live with her now, and am actually responsible for most of the bills.”

“She’s not going to go with you?” Rose asks gently.

I drop my head and shake ‘no’ slowly. “My mom’s an alcoholic, and I’ve tried to help her, but she doesn’t want help. I’m kind of hoping that if I leave, and she has to stand up and be responsible, she’ll finally do it. I’ve been enabling her ever since I can remember.”

“Tough love is the toughest thing to do.”

I nod in agreement. “The least I can do is take care of the biggest bill.” I pull out the latest mortgage statement and show her that there is still $8,670 left on the loan.

“We’ll be able to set that up.”

We spend the rest of the hour taking care of a few other not-so-minor details. Rose helps me set up a PO Box in Chicago through the Internet for lottery correspondences and applications and so on. She helps me apply for a credit card, so I can further establish a good credit rating, something I’ve been leery of doing. I’ve always been a cash or check kind of person. If I couldn’t afford it, I didn’t buy it. Needless to say, I don’t own very much. I’m able to secure a modest line of credit on my new card, which should be in my PO Box in the next few days. She suggests I set up a new bank account at one of the larger banks in the area, one with locations in Chicago since the Carlyle Savings and Loan, where my current account is, doesn’t have any branches in the city. She suggested I line up services for a financial planner and an accountant. She also suggests I hire these individuals in Chicago and will do some research to find ethical and successful ones. Rose also tells me about a close friend of hers, Pam DeWitt, who is a realtor in Chicago, and that if I need any help, I could feel comfortable calling on her.

Wow. So much to consider! But Rose is confident we’ll be able to get it all lined up in the next couple of weeks, maybe sooner.

I head back to work more than a little overwhelmed yet feeling confident with Rose’s assessment of my ticket and an independent future in Chicago. With all this in mind, I’m eager to turn in my notice, but I’m still worried that something will go wrong when I get to the Lottery Commission, and everything will fall apart.

Wednesday during my lunch break, I head over to a national chain bank and set up my new bank account. It’s all so surreal like I’m plotting some major escape. It is an escape but feels strange that it’s so undercover. Thankfully, the personal banker I am working with, Mary, is polite and doesn’t ask any exceedingly personal questions unlike the bankers at SCS&L. The staff there seems to know everything about my dysfunctional family and me.

When I get home that night, my mom and I are distant after her latest plummet off the proverbial wagon. She’s not been blotto every day, but she’s buzzed. I’m crushed that as much care as I’ve given her, she doesn’t really care about herself, or me, at all.

I’m waiting to hear from Rose about whether or not I can remain anonymous. I used every fiber of strength I can muster to continue on with day-to-day things as if nothing is different. It’s so difficult to focus.

Thursday around lunchtime, Rose calls. She has several incredible things to tell me. For starters, my PO Box keys had just been delivered to her office. She also confirms that while I cannot remain completely anonymous with the winnings, I’ll have to divulge the location of where I purchased the ticket, I won’t have to have my photo taken, and only the last initial of my name is made public. Or we could set up a trust for the funds with a name not related to mine, and anonymity could be maintained, but that would delay me making my claim for another few weeks. I’d need to have my birth certificate and social security card when we make the claim.

The most disappointing thing she shares is that I won’t receive my first payout until four to six weeks from making my claim.

So close, yet so far.

The sooner I get to the Lottery Commission Office, the sooner the ball will get rolling. Screw getting the trust account.

Rose tells me there’s a lottery office in Springfield, just an hour away. She offers to drive me since she knows I don’t have a driver’s license nor a car.

Feeling at my wits’ end, I ask how soon we could make the trip to Springfield.

“Well, I keep my Monday afternoons clear. I wouldn’t mind giving that up for you. I can pick you up at two o’clock.”

I accept her offer and tell Mr. Elson that I need to leave at two o’clock on Monday.

“Again?” he asks, completely agitated.

“It can’t be helped,” I simply reply, hoping he’s still thinking this is feminine health issues.

“That’s nearly twice in a week,” he huffs. “I have half a mind to fire you right now. This is bullshit, Crystal.”

“It’s totally your prerogative,” I say, standing my ground. I don’t say anything more. I just turn and leave. Let him fire me. Very soon, I would have six times my month’s wages in my new bank account. And again, the following week. And the week after that.

Monday afternoon, Rose and I head to the Lottery Commission. It’s like a dream. Once Rose and I reveal my winning scratcher ticket, the office erupts into an excited flurry. First, they validate my ticket. Next, I fill out paperwork for taxes and learn that payments will be made annually despite the ticket’s name. Lorell, the agent helping Rose and me with everything, explains state and federal taxes will be withheld from the gross amount, and my net check would be… $184,730!

We speak to the officials about the expected media blitz that usually happens when someone wins major purses. When Rose eloquently explains my ‘complex’ family dynamics, they understand and waive the publicity photos.

Thursday evening as I'm headed to take my final exam, I run into Mrs. Schwarzkopf. Discreetly, she asks if I met up with Rose.

“I did! Thank you so much. She’s wonderful. I don’t know where I’d be without her,” I tell her.

“Oh, I’m so glad. Jerry and I are so happy for you. This couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person. Did you get the money yet?”

“Apparently, it’s a bit more complicated with the amount I won, but Rose thinks there shouldn’t be any problem. We should get word any day.”

From my lips to God’s ears, I think loudly to myself, a silent prayer to a deity I wasn’t so sure was listening to me.

I think I should tell Mrs. Schwarzkopf that I’m going to move, but I don’t want to show my hand too early or jinx anything.

She asks me about my mom and Jude. Not much to share there, but she’s happy to hear Jude is expected home in June.

I don’t think I do very well on my history final. I’m so distracted. The entire bus ride home from class I think about the different schools in the Chicago area I could go to finish my degree. Maybe I’d go to school full time? The idea was exhilarating. Should I stay in dorms somewhere? Or at twenty-four, would I be too old? Either to be considered to stay in the dorms or just with the age difference, would it be awkward making me wish I hadn’t?

The next weeks are brutal as I wait for confirmation of my winnings. Mom doesn’t notice my anxious moodiness, and I’m grateful for that. Heather has been more irritating than normal with her trying to get me to go out and party and her lecturing me with how I’m handling my mother. If she only knew! Everything at work is driving me nuts! Tammy and Joel are fighting, again. It’s so obnoxious I want to scream at both of them. Brenda quit, and Stevie got fired, putting more burden on the rest of us.

Friday morning, almost four weeks since I went to the Lottery Commission to file my claim, the earliest I could receive my first payment, I get an email from Rose. She tells me she had just heard from the Lottery people, and my first direct deposit payment will be made to my account any day. I can barely think straight.

On my lunch break, I bike over to my new bank and dip my debit card into the ATM to see if my winnings have been deposited. Nothing other than the fifty dollars I used to set up the account. I take a few breaths and plan to check again on Monday. When the printout for the account balance shows $184,780—the $184,730 Lorell told me my annual payouts would be plus the money I used to set up the account, I almost pass out. With a shaking hand, I press the buttons to make a withdrawal.

I tap the glowing square to request one hundred dollars.

In seconds, five twenty-dollar bills appear in the dispensary.

It’s all true. The ticket, the winnings… The promise of a new life.

I’m a riot of emotion. I won’t have to struggle for money as I’ve done all my life. I’m smart enough to know that I will need to budget and can’t go crazy, but the money is nearly six times more than I’m earning now. I can live like an average person instead of someone barely keeping her head above water. But, I’ll be doing this all without my mother. She’s not the best mother, but she’s all I’ve got. Will she be okay? Will this be too much?

Regardless, I have to look out for me. I know what I’m doing is right. I’m still taking care of her, I’m just pushing her to be an adult.

When I return to work, apparently Tammy and Joel are back on and sucking face while on a smoke break which is near where I park my bike. I half wonder why I came back to work at all. I should just go AWOL. Never come back. What would it be to me? I’m more than a hundred and eighty thousand dollars richer! It’s not like I need the job reference later. But, I might, I reason, so here I am.

I still have time for my lunch break, but I march into Mr. Elson’s office instead.

“Mr. Elson, I’m turning in my notice.”

“You’re kidding. I was just considering promoting you to supervisor.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not. My last day will be Friday.”

“You’re not even giving me two weeks?”

“It can’t be helped.”

“Where are you going? The cable company?”

“No. I’m moving… out of the area. It’s already done.” This was a slight fib since it wasn’t like I had a place in Chicago yet, but I would stay somewhere. I would work on that over the next week. I am leaving. Period.

He’s stunned silent. I want to feel bad, but he’s not been the best boss always calling me out on minor things. I’m his best employee, and he knows it.

“For what it’s worth, I think you should give Eileen my weekday schedule,” I suggest. I’ve covered for Eileen, who is a part-timer, a few times on the weekend when she’s needed to take time off for her kids. She is a single mom and could use a more stable paycheck.

“Good suggestion,” he agrees. “See, you’d be an excellent supervisor. Are you sure you have to leave?” he pleads.

“Positive.”

Over the next week, I discretely pack my room with things I want to bring to my new life—simply my books and the clothes that I don’t hate in a couple of duffle bags and a few mementos in a backpack. I also visit my cell phone company and upgrade my phone from the basic clamshell to a new fancy and shiny ‘smartphone.’ It’s quite a device, and while it scares me, it also makes me feel very powerful and put together.

My last day of work is harder to work than my first day. At lunch, Tammy and Joel remove their tongues from each other’s throats long enough to ask me, “Hey. Rumor has it you’re leaving. Like, today is your last day?” Tammy asks.

“Yep,” I say simply. To tell them anything more would be a huge mistake.

“Did you get a job at the cable company? I hear they’re hiring,” Joel asks hopefully.

“No. I’m moving,” is all I say.

When I offer nothing more, they shrug and go back to making out on the nasty sofa.

After work, Austin’s van comes into the lot before I’m able to even unlock my bike. He brings the van to a screeching halt next to me.

“Crystal. Are you moving?” he asks as he climbs out of the cab.

“I am,” I say, bracing myself for what surely will come next.

“Wow. Why? Were you gonna tell me? I thought we had somethin’ here.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Can I take you out to dinner? Red Lobster?” he offers. “You can even have the tails.”

There it is. The offer. He’s looking for one last hookup. Is he serious that we ‘had somethin’?

“I have some last-minute packing. I’m leaving tomorrow,” I explain, kicking myself because, in the end, Austin’s not a bad guy and decent in bed.

“Tomorrow? I thought there would be at least another week!” I smile inwardly at the desperate tone in his voice. It’s nice to be wanted.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Can I give you a ride home at least? You know… For old time’s sake?”

I’ll admit that there’s a small part of me that is tempted, but I’m reminded of my mom who brings any guy home, and… I just can’t. Instead, I politely decline, say my goodbyes, climb on my bike, and peddle my way home. For the last time.

I find it oddly ‘comforting’ that my mom isn’t home when I get there. No doubt she’s at any of the local dives. After all, it is Friday.

As I look around the space that I’ve lived in since the day I was born, I try and feel sad that I’m leaving. I try and recall happy times to take with me, but I’m hard pressed to find a handful. Almost every birthday and holiday, Mom had been drunk. When I came home with any of my trophies, Mom was either underwhelmed or drunk and overinflated the value of the award. There was when Jude got arrested for the first time—on my tenth birthday. A couple of memories with Jude weren’t horrible like the times when we played Candy Land. We had only half a deck of cards to move forward with, and we had to make our own cards for Lollipop Woods and Princess Frostine’s spaces. For my sixteenth birthday, Jude gave me a brownie with a candle on top. True, this was four days after my actual birthday, and the brownie was laced with marijuana, and I felt like I was dying for about forty-five minutes after eating the birthday cake substitute, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

I head to bed, and out of habit, listen for Mom to come home. She stumbles in after a quarter to three. And she’s not alone. When things are silent after four o’clock, I head into her room to check on her. The guy she brought home is also sound asleep snoring like a chainsaw. I set her up one last time with ‘the bucket’ at her bedside should she wake up needing to puke. Tomorrow she’s in for quite a shock. I feel bad, but at the same time, I’m so over this.