Within days, her face was everywhere. The newspapers called her a “young single mother who defied the odds.” Cameras captured her wrapped in designer clothes, clinking champagne glasses, her smile wide enough to split the sky. Social media crowned her a queen.
I watched it all from the guest room at my sister’s modest home. The old television buzzed and flickered, but the images were clear enough: my daughter, unrecognizable, her pride shining brighter than the gold jewelry on her wrists.
The real winning ticket.
I had bought it with my own money at the corner gas station that afternoon. I had left it on the kitchen table, signed on the back with my name: María Delgado. She had snatched it up without a glance, never realizing that the name printed on the check one day wouldn’t be hers.
Forgotten by the One I Raised
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