1969

CW: Physical violence, animal abuse, substance abuse, gambling addiction

When Mom married him, we thought the lottery was just a hobby. He’d wake from dreams reaching for the pencil by his bed, scribbling down “lucky numbers” and tucking them into his wallet with a wink. Back then, Maple Street, Ford plant paychecks, penny candy, the world felt large enough for hope. It was 1969, the year everyone talked about the moon landing, the Mets, and war protests on the nightly news. Big things were happening everywhere, and in our house, mom hummed while she cooked and he ruffled my hair and called me kiddo.

Then the hidden coffee can appeared behind the water heater: quarters, dimes, "investment money", he said. At first, it felt harmless, like saving loose change for something fun. But it wasn’t numbers he was chasing for long. On Fridays he became a regular at O’Malley’s Bar “just one beer,” he’d promise. But he came home smelling of smoke and disappointment, muttering about a horse that stumbled, a game that should have gone the other way. When Mom found the can, their voices rose and fell like storm fronts sweeping across the country.

“That’s grocery money, Frank.”

“It’s our future,” he said, gripping racing forms like they were maps to somewhere better.

Baby Tommy arrived too early that winter, gasping for breath. Hospital bills stacked up while the can grew lighter. He gambled harder. Horses, football pools, barroom bets on anything with odds attached. Nothing paid out. Still, he believed with devotion. But nothing changed. The house shrank. Mom stopped humming.

She began doing things quietly. She paid bills after we went to bed, the radio turned low, as if sound itself cost money. Lists appeared folded into her apron pockets—groceries, debts, things she could sell if she had to. Sometimes she stood at the sink long after the dishes were done, hands resting in water gone cold, staring out the window like she was watching another life pass by without her. Once I caught her counting change into neat piles, then breaking them apart and counting again, as if the numbers might rearrange themselves out of kindness. When she saw me watching, she smiled and said everything was fine. Her voice had learned how to lie without blinking.

Then came the belt, hanging from a nail in the kitchen doorframe. “This family needs discipline,” he announced, as if he were reading from laws only he understood. Shifts at the plant dwindled, then vanished altogether. The belt made its introductions. We learned to listen for danger in his footsteps, heavy and slow meant sulking, heavy and fast meant hide.

Money disappeared next. From Mom’s purse, from Tommy’s piggy bank, from the change jar on top of the fridge. Even neighbors noticed. I saw Mrs. Patterson lingering in her garden, pretending not to listen. He found work at the gas station but spent his breaks at the pool hall across the street, chasing losses ten dollars at a time, convinced luck was just late, not gone.

Drinking hardened him. Losing became its own religion. And we paid in bruises hidden beneath long sleeves.

“When I win big, we’ll buy a shoe store,” he slurred when Mom whispered that the kids needed shoes.

But nothing paid out. Rusty, our cat, learned to hide. Then one day we found him in the basement. “Fell,” he claimed. We knew some things don’t fall.

I started believing in luck the way other kids believed in God. Not because it made sense, but because it explained things adults wouldn’t. If luck was real, then none of this was anyone’s fault. Not the drinking, not the belt, not the way Mom swallowed words whole. Just bad odds, bad timing. At school, teachers talked about the future like it was guaranteed. If you behaved, if you tried, you’d be fine. I learned a different math. How long I could stay outside before dark, how quickly I could disappear into my room, how many seconds of warning his footsteps gave me.

His rituals ruled our weeks. Bets on Friday nights, football on Sundays, rage whenever the world refused to bend. Even Tommy’s stutter seemed to follow the rhythm.

1969 barreled on outside our walls. Woodstock muddy and loud, the first troops leaving Viet Nam, the Mets winning when no one thought they could, while inside, time stood still. The television stayed on even when no one watched. Anchors talked about endings and beginnings, about history being made. I remember Armstrong stepping onto the moon, the whole room holding its breath. Even he stopped talking for a moment. Then the commercials came on, and the spell broke. Outside, people marched and celebrated and mourned. Inside, the same bets were placed, the same losses tallied.

One night he stumbled in drunk, swinging the belt loosely before collapsing on the living room floor. In the morning he still hadn’t moved, his skin ashen. The EMTs arrived and checked for signs of life, shook their heads, and covered him with a sheet. They handed Mom his coat without meeting her eyes.

She carried it to the kitchen like it weighed a hundred pounds. Her hands shook as she reached into the pockets. Part habit, part disbelief, part needing to know what pieces of him were left.

Only when she emptied his pockets did she find a mixture of future lottery and worthless stubs.

The house felt peaceful without him. Quiet, like the air after shouting ends but the echoes linger. The belt still hung on the nail. No one suggested taking it down. Mom moved through the rooms gathering small things. Keys, receipts, the watch he no longer wore. We followed her, unsure what to do.

She watched the Wednesday Lottery drawing on TV while we gathered his things into a box. She went still as the first number matched, then the next, her hand freezing halfway to her mouth. We spread the tickets across the table, the ones she’d pulled from his pockets minutes earlier.

One ticket matched. Completely.

We were millionaires.