Even now, sometimes in the quiet of night, I hear her voice in memory: old hag.
But those words no longer cut me. They no longer hold power. Because they were never my curse—they were hers. Her greed, her pride, her failure to love the woman who gave her everything.
Ezoic
I survived her rejection. And I thrived.
Above my fireplace, framed for all to see, hangs that old winning ticket. Not because of the fortune it brought me, but because of the truth it represents:
In the darkest moment of my life, fate had already chosen sides. My name had been written on the winning hand all along.
