I never thought my life would change thanks to a flimsy piece of thermal paper I bought at a 7-Eleven. The numbers 4-18-22-35-49 and Powerball 11. $300 million. After taxes and a lump sum, the total was about $160 million. Enough to change anyone’s life.

I’m James Sterling, 40, a mid-level architect in New York. My wife, Elena, is a beautiful, sophisticated, and… aloof PR professional.

I was going to run home, open a bottle of champagne, and shout, “We’re rich, baby!” I imagined Elena crying with joy, paying off our Brooklyn apartment, traveling to Paris, and living the life of our dreams.

But that afternoon, when I got home earlier than usual, I heard Elena talking on the phone in her dressing room. The door was ajar.

“Come on, Sarah, I know James is boring,” Elena said, her voice filled with a contempt I’d never seen before when she faced me. “He’s a safe, useless guy. Low pay, no ambition. I’m just waiting for… well, for him to pay off this house. Or if I find someone better at the fundraiser next week. James is just a walking wallet, and that wallet is almost empty.”

I stood frozen in the hallway. The lottery ticket in my breast pocket suddenly felt as heavy as lead.

It turned out that the past 10 years of love were a losing investment in her eyes. She didn’t love me. She was just tolerating me.

I backed away, quietly walked out of the house, and closed the door. I didn’t go in. I went straight to Mark’s law office – my best friend.

“Mark,” I said, placing the lottery ticket on the table. “I want to receive the prize anonymously through a Trust Fund. And I need you to help me make a play. A play to see if I should save this marriage or throw it in the trash.”

2. The False Collapse

Two months later.

The plan began. I started coming home in a daze. I complained about the lawsuit against my architecture firm, about the massive losses in cryptocurrency investments (which were made up, of course).

“We have to sell the car, Elena,” I said one evening, holding my head in my hands in anguish. “I need cash to get around.”

Elena looked at me, her eyes wide with horror. “Sell the Mercedes? Are you crazy? How will you get to work? Uber? How embarrassing!”

“I’m sorry. But I owe the bank $500,000. If I don’t pay them back, they’ll foreclose on this house.”

Elena’s attitude changed faster than the New York weather. She went from indifferent to hostile. She started leaving early and coming home late. She hid her phone. She slept separately.

The tipping point came when I said, “Honey, maybe we should move back to your mother’s house in New Jersey for a while. This apartment is going into foreclosure.”

That was the last straw.

Elena stood up and threw the diamond wedding ring (which I was still paying off) on the table.

“I’ve had enough, James,” she hissed. “You’re a loser. I didn’t marry you to live in a corner of New Jersey and take care of your elderly mother. I deserve better than that.”

“You left me? When you were at your worst?” I asked, trying to find the last shred of humanity in my wife.

“Yes. I filed for divorce this morning. My lawyer will be in touch with you. And don’t you dare make me share your debt. I want to be free.”

She dragged her suitcase out of the house, not once looking back at her “bankrupt” husband.

3. The Trial of Cruelty

Three months later. New York County Family Court.

The air in the mediation room was cold. Elena sat across from me, next to the “shark” lawyer she had hired to ensure she was not responsible for any of my phony debts. She looked radiant, as if she had found a new target.

I sat there, wearing an old suit, looking haggard and haggard. Mark sat next to me, playing the role of a ragtag lawyer.

“My client is requesting a contested divorce,” Elena’s lawyer said. “She refuses all alimony requests from Mr. Sterling because he cannot pay, but she does ask to keep all of her jewelry and personal items.”

“Okay,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I agree to everything. But before I sign, I have something to give Elena.”

I signaled to Mark. He pulled a dark blue envelope from his briefcase and slid it across the table toward Elena.

“What is this? A bill for me to pay?” Elena sneered, picking up the envelope with disdain.

“No,” I said softly. “It’s your Will and Estate Affidavit.”

Elena frowned. “Will? Are you planning to commit suicide?”

“Open it.”

Elena tore open the envelope. Inside were two documents.

The first: Medical report from Mount Sinai Hospital.
Diagnosis: Terminal pancreatic cancer. Prognosis: 3-6 months.

Elena’s face paled. After all, we had been married for 10 years. A flicker of pity flashed through her, but was quickly overshadowed by calculation. She was trying to figure out if my death would be a benefit to the insurance company.

But then she read the second page.

Power of Attorney & Donation.

It read

clearly:
“I, James Sterling, am the sole owner of the Sterling Hope Trust, with current assets of $162,000,000 (One Hundred and Sixty-Two Million United States Dollars)…”

Elena’s hands were shaking. Her eyes were bulging out of their sockets. She read the number again. One hundred and sixty-two million.

“…Due to my critical health condition and lack of heirs (my wife, Elena Sterling, has filed for divorce and renounced her rights), I have decided to donate 100% of this money to St. Mary’s Orphanage and the Cancer Support Fund, which I have been quietly supporting for many years. This decision is effective immediately upon my signing of this divorce papers.”

The room was deathly silent. Only Elena’s gasps could be heard.

“You… you won the lottery?” Elena stammered, looking up at me. Greed, regret, and horror mixed in those eyes made for a pathetic sight.

“Yes,” I nodded sadly. “I was going to tell you. I was going to use this money to give us the best life possible. But then I found out I was sick… and you decided to leave.”

I coughed, playing the role of a dying man.

“I thought that since you said I was poor and didn’t want to be involved in my debts, I would do as you said. I would leave empty-handed. The money would go to the children who needed it most.”

Elena dropped the paper and burst into tears. Real tears this time. Tears of someone who had just realized she had thrown away the winning lottery ticket of her life.

She rushed across the table, knelt at my feet, and grabbed my hand.

“James! Oh my God, James! I don’t know! I’m sorry! I’m withdrawing the petition! I’m not divorcing you anymore! I’ll take care of you! I’ll be with you for the rest of your life! Don’t do this! Don’t give the money to charity! We can cure you!”

Her lawyer also stood up, confused. “Mr. Sterling, if we reconcile…”

I looked at the woman kneeling at my feet. She wasn’t crying because I was dying. She was crying because the $162 million was about to slip away.

“It’s too late, Elena,” I withdrew my hand. “A broken trust can’t be mended with money. Sign the petition. Let me be at peace.”

Elena cried, refusing to sign. She thought that if she delayed, she would still be my legal wife and when I died (in a few months, according to the medical records), she would inherit according to the law.

At that moment, my phone rang. The loud ringing echoed in the courtroom.

I put the speakerphone on.

“Hello, Mr. Sterling?” A deep, professional voice said. “This is Dr. Evans, Chief of Oncology at Mount Sinai Hospital.”

Elena stopped short, looking up. She hoped the doctor would say something about the expensive treatment that only she could provide.

“Yes, I’m listening, doctor,” I answered, not taking my eyes off Elena.

“I have great news and a sincere apology,” the doctor said. “There was a serious mix-up in the lab last week. Your biopsy sample was switched with another patient named James Starlin.”

Elena’s heart was pounding.

“The retest results this morning confirmed: You’re perfectly healthy. Your pancreas is normal. There’s no cancer. You’re going to live a long life, Mr. Sterling.”

Elena gasped. She stood up, her face glowing. Her husband is rich. Her husband is not dead. And they are not officially divorced! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!

“Oh James! Did you hear that? You’re alive!” Elena tried to hug me.

But I raised my hand to stop her. I turned off the phone, stood up, and adjusted my old, but now suddenly authoritative, vest.

I looked at Elena, and this time my eyes were as cold as ice.

“I know,” I said. “Actually, I knew since yesterday morning. I asked the doctor to call you back so you could listen.”

“I… I know?” Elena froze.

“Yes. And that charity pledge paper?” I pointed to the paper on the table. “It has a little clause at the bottom that you didn’t read because you were crying.”

I picked up the paper and read the tiny words at the bottom:
“This agreement is only valid if I die within the next six months. If I am alive and well, all assets will be the sole property of James Sterling, and the wife who filed for divorce will not receive a single cent under the prenuptial agreement we signed when you filed for separation two months ago to avoid debt.”

Two months ago, when she moved out, she forced me to sign a document confirming “each person keeps their own assets, each person is responsible for their own debts” so that she would not have to bear my fake debt. That document was now the death sentence for her greed.

“Elena,” I smiled, a relieved smile. “I’m not sick. I’ve only had one malignant tumor in my life, and that’s you. And today, I had it successfully removed.”

I picked up the pen and signed the divorce papers with a snap.

“All right. Goodbye, Elena. Good luck with your search for ‘the right man’. I have to go, my yacht is waiting.”

I walked out of the courtroom with Mark.

Behind me, I heard Elena g

There was a frenzied scream, the sound of smashed furniture, and her cursing her own stupidity.

I stepped out into the streets of New York. The sun was shining brightly. I took a deep breath. The air of freedom tasted sweeter than $162 million.

I had lost a wife, but I had found myself again. And that was the greatest prize of all.