I’m sitting at the kitchen table in my parent’s house in a retirement community in Ocean County, NJ.
Whenever I’m here, my 87-year-old dad makes me breakfast: two perfectly symmetrical sunnyside up eggs with a slice of whole wheat toast topped with a shmear of Margarine. A coffee mug and sweet and low await my arrival. Mom’s still sleeping.
Making small talk this morning, Dad glances at the Star-Ledger newspaper on the table. One headline reads that a $533 million lottery ticket was sold in New Jersey. He marvels: “Can you imagine, all that money?? Do you know how many scholarships you could set up that would help people?”
Then he said in a softer voice, “Of course the family would get some, too.”
I mopped up the broken egg yolk on my plate with a corner of toast and thought: Now that’s how it’s done.
I am the richest girl in the world. And I don’t have a lottery ticket.