My name is Kemet Jones, and I’m thirty-two years old. If anyone had asked me what my life was like before that day, I would have said it was mundane to the point of being boring. My husband, Zolani Jones, was the director of a small construction firm based in Atlanta, Georgia.
He was my first love, the only man I had ever been with. We had been married for five years and had a three-year-old son, Jabari, who was my sunshine, my whole world. Since Jabari was born, I had quit my job to dedicate myself full-time to caring for him, managing the house, and building our little nest in a modest neighborhood on the outskirts of the city.
Zolani handled the financial side. He left early and came home late. Even on weekends, he was busy with clients and closing deals, driving all over Metro Atlanta in his pickup truck.
I felt sorry for my husband for working so hard and never complained, telling myself I needed to be his unconditional support. Sometimes Zolani would get irritated from the pressure, but I stayed silent and let it go. I figured every couple had their ups and downs.
As long as they loved each other and cared about the family, everything would be fine. Our savings were practically non-existent because Zolani claimed the company was new and all profits had to be reinvested. I trusted him without question.
That day, a Tuesday, the sun was shining softly over Atlanta. As usual, after feeding my son breakfast, I started tidying the house. Jabari was in the living room playing with his Duplo blocks on a cheap foam play mat, humming along to a cartoon on the TV.
While cleaning, I spotted the Mega Millions ticket I had hastily bought the day before, stuck to my shopping list notepad. I had bought the ticket when I went to the Kroger grocery store. It was pouring rain, and I ducked into a small neighborhood liquor store next door for shelter.
The lady selling lottery tickets was elderly, her hands wrinkled and her hair tucked under a faded Atlanta Falcons cap. She pitifully asked me to buy a ticket for good luck. I had never believed in these games of chance, but I felt bad for the woman.
So I bought a quick pick ticket, randomly choosing some numbers connected to our family—my birthday, Zolani’s, Jabari’s, and our wedding anniversary. Now, looking at it, I chuckled. It was probably trash.
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