Tran Tu Ngu was silent for a moment on the phone.

Then she said:

“First, stop wandering around like a homeless ghost.”

I laughed.

“I practically am one.”

“You have me.”

Her tone became firm.

“Send me your location. You’re staying at my place tonight.”

Twenty minutes later, Tu Ngu arrived in a taxi.

The moment she saw my blistered feet, she frowned.

“Chu Ngan let you walk out of that marriage with nothing?”

“He gave me exactly what the agreement said belonged to me.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

I looked away.

She understood.

That night, I slept in her guest room.

At eight the next morning, my phone rang.

Chu Ngan.

I almost didn’t answer.

Then I remembered the car-transfer paperwork.

“What?”

His voice sounded irritated.

“Why haven’t you sent me the transfer documents yet?”

“We divorced yesterday.”

“So?”

“I spent yesterday finding somewhere to sleep.”

He paused.

Then said impatiently:

“Don’t make everything dramatic. You agreed to cooperate.”

I sat up.

“I will.”

“Come tomorrow morning. And bring the second key.”

“Fine.”

Before hanging up, he added:

“My mother says you left some things at the house. Pick them up at the same time. We need the space.”

I stared at the screen after the call ended.

Six years.

And less than twenty-four hours after the divorce, they already needed my space.

Tu Ngu walked past the doorway.

“Breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then eat while being miserable.”

I followed her into the kitchen.

The television was on.

Lottery results were being replayed.

I barely paid attention until I heard the numbers.

My chopsticks stopped.

Then:

The kitchen went completely silent.

Tu Ngu looked at me.

“What?”

I didn’t answer.

I ran into the guest room and pulled yesterday’s skirt from my bag.

Divorce certificate.

Receipt.

Lottery ticket.

My fingers shook so badly I almost tore it.

05, 12, 18, 23, 31.

04, 09.

Double.

Tu Ngu snatched the ticket.

She checked the television.

Then the ticket.

Then the television again.

Her mouth slowly fell open.

“No.”

I whispered:

“What?”

She grabbed my shoulders.

“You won.”

I laughed nervously.

“Maybe a small prize.”

She searched the results.

Her face turned strange.

Then she sat down.

“Tieu Tue…”

“What?”

“First prize.”

My heart stopped.

She looked at me.

“The total after your multiplier…”

Her voice became almost inaudible.

“Thirty million yuan.”

I stared at her.

Then I laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because there was no other possible reaction.

Yesterday, I had stood outside the Civil Affairs Department calculating how many centuries it would take me to save three million yuan.

Today, a four-yuan ticket in my pocket was worth thirty million.

Tu Ngu suddenly slapped my arm.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“Especially Chu Ngan.”

That brought me back to reality.

The divorce had already been completed.

The ticket had been purchased afterward.

It belonged to me.

Entirely.

For the first time since waking up, I smiled.

“Don’t worry.”

“I won’t tell him anything.”

I claimed the prize quietly.

After taxes and procedures, the amount that finally reached my account was still enough to change my life completely.

But the first thing I bought was not a luxury car.

Not jewelry.

Not designer clothes.

I rented a small two-bedroom apartment.

Six months upfront.

When I received the key, I stood inside the empty living room for a long time.

It wasn’t impressive.

But nobody could ask me why I had spent 300 yuan on dinner.

Nobody could demand my salary statement.

Nobody could tell me that my career should wait because his mattered more.

That afternoon, I did something else.

I called my former manager.

The same woman who had once offered me a promotion.

“Manager Liu.”

She sounded surprised.

“Tieu Tue?”

“I heard your company is hiring a finance supervisor.”

A pause.

“You’re interested?”

“Yes.”

“Your résumé hasn’t changed much in years.”

“I know.”

I took a breath.

“But I have.”

She laughed.

“Come tomorrow.”

Three months later, I became finance supervisor.

My salary rose from 8,000 to 14,000 yuan.

I did not quit working because I had won the lottery.

Thirty million could give me freedom.

It could not give me back the six years I had abandoned my own growth.

That, I had to rebuild myself.

Chu Ngan discovered something had changed about four months later.

Not the lottery.

Me.

We met at the vehicle registration office.

I arrived wearing a simple suit.

He stared at me.

“You changed jobs?”

“Yes.”

“How much do you earn now?”

I almost laughed.

Even divorced, his first question was still about money.

“Enough.”

His expression tightened.

“You could have taken that promotion years ago.”

“I know.”

He seemed uncomfortable.

Then he handed me a document.

“My mother says you still have her gold bracelet.”

“I returned it before we divorced.”

“She says you didn’t.”

“Then ask her to look again.”

He frowned.

“You’ve become very difficult.”

I signed the final vehicle transfer.

Then pushed the papers toward him.

“No.”

“I’ve simply stopped reporting to you.”

I walked away.

Six months later, Chu Ngan remarried.

The bride was a colleague from his office.

I heard about it through mutual friends.

I genuinely didn’t care.

Until his mother called me.

“Tieu Tue.”

I almost hung up.

Then she said:

“I heard you bought an apartment.”

I became still.

“How did you hear that?”

“A friend saw you at the property office.”

That was true.

By then, I had purchased a three-bedroom apartment for myself.

Paid in full.

Nothing extravagant.

Just mine.

Mrs. Chu continued:

“You had money all along?”

I smiled.

“No.”

“Then where did you get enough to buy a house?”

“That’s private.”

Her voice sharpened.

“You were married to my son for six years. If you hid marital assets—”

“I didn’t.”

I interrupted calmly.

“Anything I received after the divorce has nothing to do with the Chu family.”

Silence.

Then she asked:

“What did you receive?”

I hung up.

Apparently, that answer was enough to make them suspicious.

Two days later, Chu Ngan appeared outside my new office.

“Did you win the lottery?”

So the secret was out.

I looked at him.

“Who told you?”

“A former employee at the lottery center recognized your name from some paperwork.”

His breathing was heavy.

“How much?”

I said nothing.

His eyes widened.

“Thirty million?”

People passing through the lobby began looking at us.

I walked toward a quieter corner.

“What do you want?”

His face became red.

“We were married when you bought the ticket.”

“No.”

“You bought it the day of the divorce.”

“After the divorce certificate was issued.”

“That’s just a few hours!”

“Legally and practically, those hours matter.”

He stared at me.

Then he said the sentence I knew was coming.

“If we hadn’t divorced that day, half of it would have been mine.”

I almost smiled.

“Yes.”

He went completely still.

Because there was nothing to argue with.

If he had waited one more day…

If he had treated me differently for one more week…

If our marriage had not ended that morning…

Life might have looked very different.

But it had ended.

He asked quietly:

“Did you buy the ticket because of the divorce?”

“Yes.”

“I was walking around wondering how I would survive.”

His expression changed.

For the first time, perhaps he understood what I had walked away with.

Thirty thousand yuan.

Two suitcases.

No home.

No car.

No promotion.

Nothing from six years except a divorce certificate.

He lowered his eyes.

“I didn’t realize things were that bad for you.”

“You never asked.”

He looked at me.

“Tieu Tue…”

“I’m getting married.”

The words left his mouth so suddenly that I almost laughed.

“I know.”

His face stiffened.

“You don’t care?”

“No.”

He looked almost offended.

Then something strange happened.

He whispered:

“I thought you’d regret divorcing me.”

I smiled.

“So did I.”

“Then the lottery happened.”

“No.”

I shook my head.

“That’s not why.”

His eyes lifted.

“I stopped regretting it before I knew the ticket had won.”

That was the truth.

The thirty million yuan made my future easier.

But freedom had begun on the Civil Affairs Department steps, when I realized that having almost nothing was still better than spending the rest of my life being measured by someone else.

Two years later, I became deputy finance director.

I invested most of the lottery money conservatively and kept working.

Tu Ngu sometimes teased me:

“You’re worth tens of millions and still complain about spreadsheets.”

I always answered:

“The money gave me choices.”

“The work gave me myself back.”

As for Chu Ngan, his second marriage did not last.

I heard arguments about money began almost immediately.

His new wife refused to hand over her salary.

Refused to explain every purchase.

Refused to sacrifice promotions to manage his home.

Apparently, he found that “selfish.”

One afternoon, years after our divorce, I saw him outside the Civil Affairs Department again.

He was holding another blue divorce certificate.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he looked at me and laughed bitterly.

“You were right.”

“About what?”

“I thought a wife should sacrifice more because a man’s career was more important.”

He looked down.

“Turns out I just wanted someone whose life revolved around mine.”

I didn’t answer.

He asked:

“Would things have been different if I had treated you better?”

I thought about the four-yuan lottery ticket.

Thirty million yuan.

A completely absurd twist of fate.

Then I said:

“Yes.”

His face tightened.

“But not because of the money.”

I smiled.

“If you had treated me better, I probably wouldn’t have been standing alone outside the Civil Affairs Department with nothing but thirty thousand yuan and nowhere to go.”

“I wouldn’t have wandered past that lottery shop.”

“I wouldn’t have bought that ticket.”

He closed his eyes.

There was almost something cruel about the coincidence.

But I no longer saw it as revenge.

The lottery had not rewarded me for divorcing him.

It had simply arrived at the precise moment I finally chose myself.

That evening, I returned to my own home.

I placed the old divorce certificate beside the winning ticket.

I had kept both.

Not because either defined me.

But because they marked the strangest day of my life.

One document said I had lost a marriage.

One tiny piece of paper said I had gained thirty million yuan.

For a long time, I thought the lottery ticket was the valuable one.

Years later, I understood differently.

The most important thing I received that day wasn’t thirty million yuan.

It was the right to live the rest of my life without asking anyone’s permission.