He Hid His Lottery Win, I Took Him to The Cleaners!

My husband won the lottery. He just forgot to tell his wife.

Fifteen years I waitressed, reheated his dinners, and folded myself a little smaller every year so he'd have room to feel big. Then my card got declined at the gas pump — and I learned the joint account was empty, my name was scrubbed off everything, and the whole town suddenly felt so sorry for poor Rick, stuck all these years carrying his deadweight wife.

Here's the thing, though. Broke men don't get their trucks detailed. Broke men don't hire fancy downtown lawyers. And broke men definitely don't buy their twenty-five-year-old secretary a brand-new car.

Turns out my husband wasn't broke. My husband was rich — millions rich — and the best news of his life came with one single thought attached: how to keep every last dollar away from me, ride off with another woman, and have me sign away everything while I thanked him for it.

He's trying to take me for everything.

So I'm going to take him to the cleaners.