My husband of 34 years filed for divorce six days after our lottery numbers came up for $2.4 million. He told me I’d get “half of nothing,” packed his truck, and drove to the claims office with the ticket in his wallet. Two hours later, the lottery office called me, not him. “Mrs. Dunn,” the woman said carefully, “we have a problem with the back of this ticket.” Every Friday for nineteen years, I made sure to buy one lottery ticket. Same corner gas station. Exact same numbers.