Chapter 7 - The Journey Downtown
The black sedan sent by the lottery commission was waiting at our curb by two o’clock. It wasn't a flashy limousine—Agent Miller had explained that for high-profile winners, discretion and security were far more important than putting on a show for the tabloid reporters who were already starting to buzz around the edges of our neighborhood like hornets.
Carmen rode with me in the back seat, wearing her Sunday church coat and holding my extra purse just in case we needed to carry any paperwork.
As we pulled away from Elm Street, I looked out the tinted window at our pale yellow house with its green front door. The brown suitcase was still sitting on the porch where Ashley had thrown it, but it didn't look sad anymore. It just looked like a piece of old luggage that was ready to be unpacked—or left behind for good.
“Are you nervous, Maggie?” Carmen asked, gently patting my knee.
“Not nervous,” I said, adjusting the cuffs of my blue cardigan. “Just... tired, Carmen. It’s a lot of weight to carry—ten years of feeling like a guest in your own home, and then suddenly finding out the universe decided to hand you a mountain of gold just to see what you would do with it.”
“The universe didn't hand it to you by accident,” Carmen said firmly. “Ramon bought that ticket with you every single week. It was your ritual. It belonged to you before it was even printed on that piece of paper.”
When we arrived at the downtown state headquarters, a pair of security guards escorted us through a side entrance, avoiding the pack of reporters and camera crews camped out by the main glass doors.
Inside a sleek, wood-paneled conference room on the fourth floor, Director Vance was waiting for us alongside two solemn-looking men in sharp suits who introduced themselves as fiduciary advisors from a reputable firm downtown.
“Mrs. Ortega,” Director Vance said, standing up and shaking my hand with genuine respect. “Thank you for coming down. I know this has been a difficult and stressful day for you, especially given the circumstances involving your family.”
“Thank you, Director,” I said, taking a seat at the polished mahogany table. Carmen sat right beside me, acting as my anchor. “Let’s just get the paperwork done. I want to know what my options are.”
For the next two hours, we went over numbers, taxes, annuities, and lump-sum distributions. The figures swimming across the documents were staggering—numbers with zeros that stretched out past the margin of human imagination. Ninety million dollars gross, roughly fifty-seven million after federal taxes if I took the lump sum.
One of the financial advisors, a young man named Mr. Sterling who looked like he hadn't slept in a week, pushed a set of recommendations across the table.
“Mrs. Ortega, with this kind of capital, you can establish charitable trusts, purchase real estate anywhere in the world, set up generational portfolios—”
I raised one hand gently, cutting him off.
Mr. Sterling blinked, pausing mid-sentence.
“Mr. Sterling,” I said, my voice calm and steady. “I don't need a generational portfolio. I don't want to buy a villa in France or a yacht in the Mediterranean. I’m seventy-four years old. My knee cracks before rain, and my favorite place on earth is a wooden porch chair on Elm Street.”
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Mr. Sterling swallowed, looking slightly bewildered. “Then... what would you like to do with the funds, ma'am?”
I looked over at Carmen, who gave me an encouraging nod, and then back down at the thick stack of papers bearing my name—the real name, signed with the hand Ramon used to hold.
