Chapter 1: The Sofa and the Shadow

At sixty-two, I never imagined I’d end up sleeping on the fold-out sofa in my own son’s living room. My entire life reduced to two suitcases and a handbag. The divorce papers were still warm from the lawyer’s printer when Marvin—my only son—offered me what he called “a temporary solution.”

Temporary. As if the collapse of a thirty-year marriage were just a minor inconvenience.

Morning light filtered through Dorothy’s immaculate white curtains, casting shadows on the hardwood floor I wasn’t allowed to step on with shoes. Every rule in that house was unspoken but absolute: don’t use the good towels, don’t touch the thermostat, don’t cook anything with lingering smells. I had become a ghost, drifting along the edges of a perfect life that wasn’t mine.

“Mom, you’re up early.” Marvin appeared in the kitchen doorway, already dressed in his charcoal-gray suit. At thirty-five, he’d inherited his father’s strong jawline and my stubbornness, though he seemed to have forgotten where he got the latter.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I replied, stirring instant coffee into microwaved water. The “good” coffee maker was off-limits. Dorothy had explained with a tight smile: “It was a wedding gift.”

Marvin shifted uneasily, like he used to when he had to confess something as a boy.

“Dorothy and I have been talking,” he began. “We think maybe it’s time you started looking for something more… permanent.”

The coffee turned bitter in my mouth.

“Permanent arrangements?”

“Senior living. They’ve got excellent programs now.”

“Of course.” I set the cup down harder than I meant to. “How foolish of me to think I could stay until I got back on my feet.”

“Don’t be like that. You know we just want to help.”

“Help?” The word came out sharper than I intended. “Marvin, yesterday you took Dorothy’s mother to tour that new condo complex on Maple Street—the one with granite countertops.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “That’s different. Her mom has special needs.”

“My special need is a bed that isn’t your sofa.”

Dorothy entered then, her blonde hair pulled into a flawless bun. She moved through the kitchen with practiced precision, avoiding my eyes.

“Good morning, Martha,” she said without looking at me. Always Martha. Never Mom. Never Mother-in-law. Just Martha—the guest who’d overstayed her welcome.

The guest room, once filled with storage boxes, had been cleared and painted a soft yellow the week before, prepared for their first child. Dorothy’s belly was barely showing, but the crib had already been ordered.

“Dorothy needs the space for the nursery,” Marvin explained. “She’s been stressed.”

“I never said I’d stay forever,” I answered. “Just until I find another place.”

Dorothy finally met my gaze, her green eyes cold and calculating.
“Martha, I don’t think you understand. This is about boundaries. About what’s appropriate.”

“Appropriate?” I echoed. “And what’s appropriate for a woman whose husband of thirty years left her for his secretary?”

“Mom, don’t—”

“Let me understand this, Marvin. Your unborn child needs a room more than your homeless mother needs a bed? Is that right?”

The color drained from his face.

“You’re not homeless. You have options. Dad offered you the apartment in Florida.”

“Your father offered me a one-bedroom three thousand miles away—if I signed away half of everything we built together. Very generous.”

The roar of Dorothy’s blender drowned out the silence. When it stopped, the weight in the air was even heavier.

“If you wanted comfort,” Marvin muttered at last, “you should’ve stayed married to Dad.”

The words hit me like a punch. I looked at the man I had raised, fed, loved unconditionally—and saw a stranger.

“I see,” I said, setting my cup in the sink. “Thank you for clarifying my place here.”

That afternoon, I scrolled through rental listings on my phone, recalculating my meager savings. Exactly eight hundred forty-seven dollars in my account. At sixty-two, unemployed and with no credit, it might as well have been eighty-seven cents.

That night, I walked to the corner store. At the counter, my eyes lingered on the lottery display. The Powerball jackpot: three hundred million.

“Quick pick, please,” I heard myself say.

Mr. Patel slid the ticket from the machine: 7, 14, 23, 31, 42. Powerball 18.

“Good luck,” he said, handing me my change. Eight dollars. All I had left.

The house was empty when I returned. A note on the counter said Marvin and Dorothy had gone to dinner at her mother’s. Of course.

I sank into the sofa and turned on the news.

At 11:17 p.m., the lottery numbers flashed on the screen.

7, 14, 23, 31, 42. Powerball 18.

I stared, convinced I was hallucinating. Pulled the ticket from my pocket with trembling hands. Compared once. Twice. Again.

Every number matched.

The ticket slipped from my fingers as I collapsed into the cushions. Three hundred million dollars. After taxes, enough to make sure I never slept on anyone’s sofa again. Enough to look my son in the eye and tell him exactly what I thought of his tough love.

The question wasn’t what I’d do with the money. The question was what I’d do with the power.