My name is Jimena Ortega. I’m thirty-two years old, and for a long time I thought my life was the kind no one looks at twice: a modest home in Mexico City, a hardworking husband, a three-year-old son, and a routine built on warm meals, pressed shirts, and dreams constantly put on hold.
My husband, Álvaro Medina, managed a small construction company that, according to him, was barely surviving. He always insisted every peso went to materials, debts, permits, and salaries. I believed him. I believed him when he said there was no money. I believed him when he came home late, tense and irritable. I believed him when he snapped over trivial things and blamed the pressure of work.
I left my job as an administrative assistant when our son, Emiliano, was born. From then on, my world revolved around him. If he laughed, my day felt complete. If he slept peacefully, I felt I had done enough. I dedicated myself entirely to our home, convinced that love also meant enduring, caring, and forgiving.
Everything changed one Tuesday.
That morning, while going through my grocery notebook and a few receipts, I found a National Lottery ticket I had bought impulsively the day before. An elderly woman had sold it to me in a small shop when I took shelter from the rain. I bought it out of sympathy more than hope. I didn’t even remember the numbers.
While Emiliano played with his toy cars in the living room, I went online to check the results. I read the numbers quietly, almost amused at myself.
Five. Twelve. Twenty-three.
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