Fifty million dollars.
My cracked phone screen showed the winning Powerball numbers, confirming an impossible match.
Twenty years a ghost, living paycheck to paycheck in a tiny Brooklyn apartment, and now, I held the key to a new life.
But the buzz of my phone pulled me back to a familiar nightmare.
It was Brenda, my "adoptive" mother, calling with fake sympathy, quickly turning to thinly veiled greed for money for my "father's" liver transplant.
When I calmly told her I had won the lottery, her manufactured panic vanished, replaced by an ugly, avaricious gasp.
My refusal to hand over a single cent unleashed a public tirade; soon, I was plastered across every news channel, dubbed the "Powerball Parasite," buying Birkin bags while my "dying dad" lay in a hospital bed.
The world hated me, calling me a monster.
Every comment was a venomous stab, every headline a condemnation.
They didn't understand the icy calm behind my eyes, the cold precision of my actions.
They saw heartless cruelty; I saw the meticulously laid foundation for a justice long overdue.
Why would I invite such public scorn?
Why play the villain?
Because this wasn't some selfish whim.
This was a calculated strike.
And when the invitation came from 'The Dr. Grant Show' – Brenda's last desperate plea – I knew it was time for the world to see the truth.
Not just my truth, but their truth.