My parents always put holiday lottery tickets on our Christmas tree for each of us 4 kids. One year I won $5,000! I was pregnant and expecting the first baby born among my siblings. My oldest brother—the black sheep—demanded that I split the money with all of them and called me selfish. I found out later that my dad had actually bought me five tickets instead of one that year.
But that moment stirred something deep in my brother, who I’ll call Rylan. He’d always been on edge, always quick to assume he was being treated unfairly. That Christmas, he stormed out of the living room and didn’t talk to any of us for weeks.
I was seven months pregnant. The money was a gift from the universe, or so I thought. I put every penny into saving for the baby. Diapers, crib, car seat. Nothing extravagant. Just things I knew I’d need.
Rylan, meanwhile, started spreading rumors in the family. That I lied. That I probably stole the ticket. That Dad favored me. It hurt more than I wanted to admit.
We had always had a rocky relationship, but I never thought my own brother would try to turn the family against me over a scratch-off.
A few months later, I gave birth to a baby girl. Named her Lila. She was perfect. Tiny, warm, a little sunbeam in a noisy world.
Mom and Dad came to the hospital. So did my two younger sisters. Rylan didn’t.
He texted once, two days after Lila was born. “Congrats. I hope she grows up more generous than you.” I stared at the screen for a full minute. Then I deleted the message.
I decided not to respond. Some people wait for bridges to burn so they can say they weren’t the ones holding the match.
For the next year, I focused on being a mom. It wasn’t easy. Lila had colic, I had barely any sleep, and I was still working part-time at the local bakery. But I was proud. I made it work.
I didn’t see much of Rylan. But once, at a family dinner, he showed up unannounced. His hair was longer, eyes a little more hollow. He brought a girl with him—Jessa. She seemed quiet, kind.
The tension at the table could’ve been sliced with a butter knife. Rylan didn’t speak to me, not even a glance.
Midway through dinner, Lila started crying. She’d dropped her teether and was getting cranky. I excused myself and took her outside to calm her down.
When I came back in, Rylan and Jessa were gone. Later, I found out from my sister that he had whispered, “Some people still think they’re better than the rest of us,” before leaving.
It felt so childish. But I was tired of trying to fix something that clearly didn’t want to be fixed.
Time passed.
Lila turned two. She started walking, talking, calling the vacuum cleaner “Roary” and singing to birds. My world was small but rich with love.
Then, last fall, my dad had a stroke.
It was sudden. One minute he was gardening, next thing we knew, he was in the ICU.
We all rushed to the hospital. Even Rylan came. He looked tired, worn-down by something invisible.
In that hospital room, for the first time in years, we were all together. Four siblings. One dad, asleep and silent.
No one said anything for a while.
Then Rylan said quietly, “I shouldn’t have made such a big deal out of that ticket.”
The room stayed still. I didn’t say anything. Just looked at him. He met my eyes for a second, then looked away.
After Dad recovered—thankfully, he did, slower than before but still very much Dad—we started seeing each other more.
Not Rylan. He disappeared again.
Until one day, months later, Jessa messaged me on Facebook.
I was shocked. We weren’t friends. Hadn’t even spoken at that dinner
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