After I hit the jackpot for $2.5 million in the lottery, my parents demanded I split half with their cherished daughter…

No one in my family knew the address and I intended to keep it that way. As I sealed the last box, I felt a weight lifting from my shoulders. The money hadn’t even hit my account yet, but I was already experiencing a different kind of wealth, the richness of clarity, and the luxury of finally prioritizing myself.

The day after the burning incident, I took a personal day from work to handle several important matters. First, I met with a lawyer recommended by my financial advisor to discuss the legality of my family’s actions and how to protect myself going forward. Breaking and entering is a criminal offense, the lawyer, Ms. Patterson, explained.

As is destruction of property, even if what they destroyed was ultimately just a souvenir. I don’t necessarily want to press charges, I said, still conflicted despite everything. I just want them to leave me alone.

A restraining order might be appropriate. Then she suggested, and I’d recommend documenting everything in case their behavior escalates further. Next, I visited the bank where I’d set up the account for my lottery winnings.

The bank manager assured me that all security measures were in place, including requiring in-person identification for any transactions. We’ve worked with lottery winners before, she explained. Your account has our highest security protocols.

No one can access it without your physical presence and multiple forms of ID. As a final precaution, I contacted the lottery commission to alert them to my family’s behavior. Unfortunately, this happens more often than you’d think, the representative said sympathetically.

Rest assured, we will not discuss your winnings with anyone but you, regardless of their claimed relationship. With these safeguards in place, I returned to my newly secured apartment to finish packing for my move the following day. As I sorted through my belongings, deciding what to take and what to donate, my phone rang.

It was a number I didn’t recognize. Hello? I answered cautiously. Mackenzie? It’s Aunt Helen.

My mother’s sister had always been somewhat of a neutral party in family dynamics, neither encouraging my parents’ favoritism nor actively opposing it. Aunt Helen, I responded, my tone guarded. I assume you’ve heard some version of recent events.

I’ve heard your mother’s version, she confirmed. But I’ve known your mother my entire life, so I can read between the lines. What really happened? Something in her voice, a genuine concern without judgment, prompted me to tell her everything, from the lottery win to the breaking and entering to the ceremonial check burning.

When I finished, she was silent for a moment. They broke into your apartment and burned what they thought was your check, she finally asked, her voice a mixture of horror and disbelief. Yes, I confirmed.

And they seemed to genuinely believe that would somehow force me to share the money with Brooke. Good Lord, she muttered. I knew your mother could be dramatic, but this is, this is criminal behavior.

The irony is, there was never an actual check to burn, I explained. The lottery doesn’t work that way. The giant check from the ceremony is just for publicity photos.

The real payment is processed electronically. Aunt Helen gave a short, incredulous laugh. So they committed a crime for absolutely nothing? Essentially, yes.

Despite everything, I found myself smiling at the absurdity of it all. The look on their faces when I explained that to them. I can imagine, she said.

Listen, Mackenzie, I’m sorry this happened to you. And I’m sorry that your win has been tainted by all this ugliness. You deserve to enjoy your good fortune without this drama.

Her understanding was unexpected and touching. Thank you, Aunt Helen. That means a lot.

For what it’s worth, she added, your mother has been calling everyone in the family trying to rally support for her side. But after hearing what really happened, I think you’ll find most of us are appalled by their behavior. After we hung up, I felt a small measure of relief knowing that at least some of my extended family understood the reality of the situation.

The next day, as professional movers loaded my belongings into their truck, my phone began ringing repeatedly. It was my parents. After the fifth call in 10 minutes, I finally answered.

What do you want? I asked, my patience exhausted. We need to talk, my father said, his tone notably less commanding than usual. Your mother and I have been discussing things, and we realize we may have overreacted…