My daughter-in-law laughed as she gave me a $2 scratch-off for my 73rd birthday. Ten months later, my own son shoved a senior living brochure in front of me and said, “We already picked your room.” They thought I was too old to fight back. They had no idea what I had been hiding.

Nobody gave me a list of chores. They simply appeared, one by one, until my entire life fit neatly into whatever they needed from me.

One evening, while carrying a basket of folded towels, I overheard Jessica talking to Colin in the kitchen.

“Your mother is becoming a burden.”

There was a pause.

Then Colin sighed.

“What do you want me to do? She’s my mother.”

That hurt worse than what Jessica had said.

I had spent decades taking care of him. Now, taking care of me sounded like a prison sentence.

That was why, after my birthday, I didn’t tell a soul about what I had found under the silver coating of that ticket.

The following Monday, I went out alone. I drove downtown and met with an attorney named Richard Sterling. I placed the ticket on his desk.

He stared at it for several seconds.

Then he looked up.