When I won two hundred million dollars, I told no one. Not my son, Daniel. Not my daughter, Laura. Not the women I sat beside every Sunday at church. I sat alone at my kitchen table, ticket in hand, heart racing, waiting for the surge of excitement everyone talks about. It never came. Instead, I felt hollow. For years, I had slowly faded into the background of my family’s life. Now, suddenly, I could see the truth with startling clarity.Family games

I decided to test them.

Not out of spite. Not for revenge. I needed to know whether love still existed beneath the distance—or if it had quietly disappeared while I was busy being useful and undemanding.

I waited three days after claiming the prize. Long enough for the shock to settle, long enough to steady my voice. Then I picked up the phone. My hands shook. I called Daniel first. He was always busy, always important, always unavailable unless convenient.

“Daniel,” I said softly, forcing weakness into my voice. “I need help. I can’t afford my medication this month.”

The silence told me everything before he spoke. Then the call ended. No goodbye. No explanation. I stared at the phone, stunned. He had blocked me.

Frozen, I listened to the clock ticking loudly. I wasn’t even worth a conversation.

Next, I tried Laura. My daughter sighed the moment she heard my voice.

“Mom, I really don’t have time for this,” she said. “I have enough problems of my own. You’ll have to figure it out.”

She hung up.

No questions. No concern. No pause. After everything I had done for them—raising them alone after their father died, sacrificing jobs, sleep, peace—this was what I meant to them now. A burden. An inconvenience.