When I won two hundred million dollars, I didn’t tell a single soul. Not my son Daniel, not my daughter Laura, not even my friends from church. I sat in my living room, clutching the lottery ticket in my shaking hands, my heart hammering like a drum in my chest. But the feeling I expected—pure joy—never came. Instead, there was emptiness. A hollow, gnawing emptiness that made my chest ache. For years, I had been invisible to the people I loved the most. They were always too busy, too self-absorbed,

On Christmas Eve, all I wanted was milk for Santa’s cookies.Just one gallon.That was it. Nothing fancy. Nothing dramatic. Or so I thought. I had been awake since five that morning, dragging myself through a twelve-hour hospital shift. By the time I clocked out, my scrubs smelled like antiseptic, rubber gloves, and burnt coffee from a breakroom no one had bothered to clean since Thanksgiving. My feet hurt so badly it felt like the pain had climbed straight into my teeth. Every step felt heavy. Every breath felt tired. But