I told Rhonda everything. For twenty-two years, every ticket I bought had been signed on the back and witnessed by Harold, the gas station owner’s father, who notarized each one for a quarter. I had started it after Gary once joked that if I ever won, he would find a way to spend it. I never imagined he would try.

Harold arrived within the hour with his notary book, which recorded every week’s ticket, including the winning one, dated and stamped. Rhonda verified the serial number against the lottery records. The ticket belonged to me, and the signature on the back matched my driver’s license. The claims officer calmly informed Gary that attempting to claim a ticket he did not own could be reported as fraud.

Gary’s shouting stopped. He called me twice, first angry, then pleading, saying he had made a terrible mistake. I let it ring. When I finally answered, I told him the papers he served me would be honored, and I would be asking for far more than half of nothing. My attorney, Ms. Delgado, had already filed.

I claimed the prize the next morning. After taxes, I paid off the mortgage, set up funds for our children and grandchildren, and visited my sister, who was healthy again. The divorce finished within the year, and the court awarded me the house and most of our savings. Every Friday, I still buy one ticket, and I stick it under the pineapple magnet, signed and witnessed.