“Evening, Mrs. Williams,” said Tommy Murphy from behind the counter. “Lottery machine’s working tonight if you’re interested. Jackpot’s up to sixty-two million.”

Sixty-two million? I almost laughed. But something made me pause. Maybe it was the memory of last week’s dinner when Brittany had shown off her new designer handbag while I quietly ate the cheapest thing on the menu. Maybe it was David’s casual comment about how I should start thinking about downsizing my already tiny apartment because “older people don’t need much space.” Or maybe it was just pure, stubborn defiance.