We were barely three months into the new year, and everything had changed. Bandit, our near-sighted tabby, had run away. And Dan — my brilliant husband — had broken his leg in five places trying to take down the Christmas lights. Now he was off work indefinitely, popping painkillers and playing PS5, while credit card statements haunted us, interest piling up like snowdrifts. 2025 was shaping up to be the shittiest year on record.
Then I found the lottery ticket.
It was lying there outside the gas station, half-wet from slush, like it was waiting for me. I glanced around, heart pounding, before snatching it up. Not stealing, exactly. Just… claiming what someone else had been careless enough to lose.
I didn’t know yet that it was worth a million dollars, but when I checked the numbers that night, my breath caught. A seven-figure miracle. A way out.
“Can you believe it?” I said, shoving the phone under Dan’s nose.
He whistled low, dollar signs in his eyes. “Just think of all the things we can buy.”
Buy. The word chafed like an ill-fitting shoe.
Dan was the reason we were drowning in debt — his brand-new truck, his consoles, his impulsive spending — which might have been manageable if he hadn’t sunk all our savings into his friend’s startup. KeepSafe, an on-demand personal security service — like Uber but for guarding your belongings — turned out to be an early Christmas gift for thieves.
Goodbye, retirement.
I had been working two jobs just to keep us afloat. And now? Now, he was envisioning more toys, more recklessness, more of my life spent cleaning up his mess.
I yanked the ticket out of his hand before he could get ideas. “We need to be smart,” I said.
Mobility was still an issue for Dan. He was all but bound to the couch. Where he spent most of his days, even before the accident. Only the painkillers were new.
He groaned, flopping back, and adjusted his useless leg. “Don’t be such a buzzkill.”
My mother once called him a bumbling idiot. My father — God rest his soul — had declared him a no-good fool. Daddy was never wrong; it just took me longer to see it.
My brain started doing the calculations, ignoring Dan’s protests. The smart thing would be to pay off the debts and then invest the rest. But none of that mattered if Dan got his hands on it. And what was mine was his, for better or worse. Even in divorce.
Unless there was no Dan.
The thought arrived like an uninvited guest. But once it was in my head, it made itself at home. Put its feet up. Got comfortable.
A tragic accident. A gas leak. A fire. Terrible thoughts twirled around my head, whispering in my ear. I could not quiet them. My eyes settled on the pill bottle: oxycodone. Heavy stuff.
I wasn’t a monster, per se, but it turns out logic weighs more than love. Logic told me Dan would run through the money like a hot blade through butter.
I watched him struggle to stand, crutches awkward in his grip. The stairs lay ahead. If he were to trip, to go tumbling down… it wouldn’t take much. One little push. One tiny shift of weight at just the right moment.
Three months into the new year and everything had changed for the better. A new year, a new me. A new life.
I smiled at him. A bright, beatific smile.
“Careful now,” I said. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”
Jasmine Rahmel is an emerging writer whose stories blend dark humour with the macabre. She carves stories with a steady hand and a wicked grin, reveling in the jagged edges of human nature. Jasmine lives in the sleepy, seaside town of Pictou, Nova Scotia and is currently at work on her first novel.
Patreon keeps us going. You can be part of that.
