On the week I won 47 million, I asked my family for five thousand and watched them turn my panic into entertainment. My mom texted, “Cassie, stop calling people. You’re making us look bad,” like my rent was a PR problem. My stepdad’s voice went flat: “You’re not my daughter.” My sister offered “maybe three hundred,” and my brother vanished until he needed “two grand” for a “sure thing.”
The night I learned I was worth eight figures, I didn’t scream or call anyone. I sat at my tiny kitchen table in Portland Oregon, letting old Sinatra crackle through a cheap speaker while a glass of iced tea sweated onto the wood. The fridge hummed, steady as a metronome. A little U.S. flag…
