OR
Decline
I didn’t touch anything… not yet.
But the part of me that couldn’t breathe lately? The part drowning under bills, grief, loneliness, and the constant weight of holding everything together?
That part whispered yes with a yearning that made my chest ache.
My finger hovered over Accept, but I didn’t press it. Instead, I scrolled, looking for ‘fine print’, or terms and conditions, or anything that made sense of what the hell this actually was.
At the bottom of the screen, in tiny gold script, I found a question:
What do I get if I win?
I tapped it and a black box expanded across the screen with a single number inside. I blinked, shook my head, and then I blinked again, just to make sure I hadn’t misread it.
$750,000
The zeroes stared back at me and I shivered.
I covered my mouth with one hand, breath catching in my throat as my heart pounded hard against my ribs. It didn’t say if it was split into monthly payments, taxed, or tangled up in loopholes, but I didn’t need details.
I needed that fucking money, and I was willing to do whatever it took to win it.
That amount of money would clear every hospice bill I owed. Every late fee. Every debt. I could put Granny Irene in a better room at the nursing home. I could afford to take time off work and spend as much time as I wanted with her while she was still alive. I could make sure she never felt alone again for the rest of her life.
I could finally breathe if I won that money.
The number was downright obscene.
I wasn’t stupid. Nobody gave away that kind of money without strings attached. Fair enough, but God, I’d already destroyed so much of myself to survive… I didn’t know how much of me was left to give.
What would be required of me if I won?
I wasn’t ready to hit Accept, but I wasn’t walking away from this kind of opportunity, either.
I stared at the number until my vision blurred, then I closed the site.
Not out of rejection, but out of self-preservation, like if I looked at the number for too long, it would burn a hole through me.
I set the phone down, then picked it back up half a second later.
I didn’t call the hospice. I didn’t text my best friend. What I did instead was call my parents.
The phone rang three times before my mother answered, her voice clipped and tight like she was waiting to be disappointed.
“Chrissy?”
“Hey, Mom,” I said, my tone soft and apologetic. “I just wanted to let you know I won’t be able to make it to Christmas this year.”
Silence stretched on the other end of the line. I could practically hear her blinking.
“It’s work,” I added quickly. “I have to attend a professional development retreat, and if I don’t do it, I could lose my job.”
Another beat of silence. Then, coolly: “We’re your family, Chrissy. You should be spending the holidays with us, not working on Christmas.”
“I know I should, Mom,” I said, and I meant it. But I also meant the part I didn’t say out loud: Why would I come? You’ve never made me feel like I was good enough. You’ll just dote on Alice in front of me and pick apart every life choice I’ve ever made.
