The Powerball and the Mega Millions, as of last night, were collectively worth over 2 billion dollars. Chances of winning one of these jackpots were 1 in 300 million, but somebody did win. Somebody in New Jersey actually won, but people haven’t even checked their tickets yet and nobody even knows where the ticket was sold. Could it have been me?

The odds of what happened to me, in terms of losing my kids, were greater than 1 in 300 million. People are convicted of murder, corruption, extortion, drug dealing, sex trafficking, embezzlement, robbery, and many other heinous crimes, yet their kids still talk to them. I didn’t do any of those things (though Jay probably told them I multitasked and did every one of them on a weekly basis), and I have been given a lifelong sentence of suffering and agony that mutilates and incapacitates my entire stamp.

My mother abandoned me when all of the vicissitude began, so afraid of being jettisoned herself. But, one of the last things she said to me was, “Any other family … If it was any other family, this would never have happened.” Though seemingly ambiguous, I somewhat understood what she was saying. My sister threatened her, controlled her, scared her, and basically ordered my mother to have nothing to do with me. The once powerful and independent Barbara Starsky became a pathetic pawn on my sister’s toxic and monochromatic black chessboard.

My mother had also twice mentioned, “Even a criminal would have been pardoned by now.” She knew how deeply I was hurting, and I don’t think she ever fully understood (who can?) why I was eliminated from the hearts of the kids I loved and still love so completely. She was a coward, and, whether her hand was forced or not, she did make a choice – Sophie’s Choice.

After Zack left me so suddenly, my mom reached out to him. Always the softest of my 3, his behavior puzzled her the most. Aware that Jay’s attorney had told my attorney that my divorce wasn’t progressing because Zack still talked to me, and recognizing that Jay’s lawyer confidently and contemptuously added, “But it won’t be for too much longer,” my mother did, supposedly, reach out to Zack. And, after he did abruptly discard me and she did call him, her words to me were, “I swear to G-d, he has been brainwashed.” (I would sit for a polygraph to attest to the validity of this conversation and the words that still permeate and pierce my vandalized heart).

What will they tell my grandchildren? Will they say I’m dead (easily disproven, thank G-d). Will they say I’m crazy and that I’m away in some sort of facility (easily disproven, thank G-d). Will they say I’m in prison (I guess I am in some sort of proverbial prison).

What won’t they tell my grandchildren? They probably won’t tell them that I’m a respected and beloved teacher. They probably won’t tell them that I am funny, kind, benevolent, charitable, concerned, and so deeply passionate and compassionate. They probably won’t tell them that, when they were growing up, my talons would automatically sharpen if anybody or anything ever hurt them. They probably won’t tell them that, when they were sick, I was always there, never letting them be alone and scared. They probably won’t tell them that I called them my heart, my soul, and my lungs. They probably won’t tell them that I loved them so much that I stayed in a marriage that didn’t make me happy. And, they probably won’t tell them that I loved them more than I loved myself. I still do.

May we all win the lottery, whatever the lottery looks like to us. Whether it’s the Powerball, the Mega Millions, or our children and grandchildren’s presence in our lives, may that winning ticket be in our reach.

Marla