It was 1980, a year that marked the beginning of a new decade and also my third year on earth. However, in our family’s history, 1980 will forever be remembered as the year my father won the lottery in the most unexpected way. Here’s the thing: my father has never been a gambler. He never played the lottery, nor was he a casino man. In fact, he bought the winning ticket only because my godmother pressured him to do so while he was visiting her, and “el billetero” (the man who sells lottery tickets on the streets) happened to stop by to sell her the usual, as she was a regular customer.

Three months before my dad bought the ticket, we had moved from the José Martí Street house where I was born to a temporary place in Villa Mella, which at the time was almost like moving to the countryside. In hindsight, my parents and grandmother were visionaries when they decided to move, as a decade later, the area where my father and grandmother had lived since 1968 became a place that wasn’t suited for raising a family.

The move happened in March, three months before my birthday and the day my father won the lottery. Before the lottery win, my father and grandmother had bought a plot of land in Villa Mella, where they planned to build my grandma’s dream house. The money was just enough for the land and to start the foundation work and lay some blocks.

Again, this is a part of my family’s history that I don’t remember at all, but I’ve heard the story many times over the course of my life. I also got a refresher recently when I asked my mother about that time my father won the lottery, only to end up calling my dad anyway because my mother didn’t remember many details.

It was so entertaining to hear his recount of the events that led him to win the lottery, the way he found out, and how he communicated the news to my grandmother. It was clear this was the memory I needed to preserve from 1980, the year I turned three.

Here’s how my father won the lottery:

Since it had only been three months since the move, it was normal for my father to visit the barrio where he grew up, got married, and had his first two kids. The neighbors were like family, especially la comadre, my godmother, who lived in the house next to ours. It was the morning of Sunday, May 25th—three and a half weeks after my third birthday—and it was also Mother’s Day, which in the Dominican Republic falls on the last Sunday of May each year.

As my father was getting ready to leave, el billetero showed up. Sergio, the lottery ticket salesman, was there to sell my godmother her usual numbers, and since he was also a family friend, he knew that my father didn’t like gambling or playing the lottery. However, this time was different, my godmother Teófila said. “Now that you don’t live here, you should help Sergio out by purchasing one or two pedacitos.”

My dad hesitated and tried to get out of it, but my godmother wouldn’t have it. So, he gave in and decided to buy one. “Okay, give me one ticket,” he said. But he struggled to find a number that had some sort of meaning—his birthday, my grandma’s birthday, his college ID number—but he had no luck, as Sergio didn’t have any of those numbers. As he continued to browse, he spotted the number 84 and remembered that it used to be the number of the José Martí house before they rearranged the numbers on the street and gave them the number 332.

Once he decided on the number and Sergio handed him the ticket, my godmother said no one buys just one pedacito and insisted he should get another piece. It never occurred to him to get a second piece of the same number to increase his chances of winning ‘something,’ so he went for the number 86, which was la comadre’s old house number.

After that, he went home and forgot about the whole thing. He didn’t even remember that the lottery numbers were picked on Sunday night. The day ended, and the next day, he went to work as usual. My father won the lottery and didn’t know it. He went about his Monday at work as usual.

At the time, it was customary to go home for lunch and la siesta, a tradition Dominicans inherited from the Spaniards that is now long gone due to globalization. So around noon, he took his 1967 Volkswagen Beetle and started to head home. As he stopped at a red light and looked up at the huge billboard from the national lottery that announced the winning number, he quickly remembered the ticket he bought.

The light changed to green, but as he started to drive off, he noticed the number 4 at the end and almost stopped in the middle of the road. He got nervous just thinking about it. He searched for his ticket inside the pocket of his guayabera and couldn’t believe his eyes. He drove off as he remembered that there were always billeteros selling tickets at the corner of 38th Street and Maximo Gomez Street.

He stopped there and asked one of the salesmen which number had won the major prize. The man responded by asking if he had won, and he said he didn’t, that he was just curious. He then bought the newspaper to confirm his win. My father won the lottery, and almost 24 hours later, when he learned the news, he started feeling all of the emotions.

He had one piece of a 100-piece quiniela, and the big prize was 625,000 pesos, which meant his cut was 6,250 pesos. Still in a bit of shock, he drove home and didn’t know how to break the news to my grandma, who had high blood pressure and was very sensitive to sudden news.

He felt tired and decided not to tell my grandma just yet, so he ate and lay down for his nap. The paper lay on the nightstand, and he dozed off for about half an hour. He woke up suddenly with the feeling he had dreamed it all, but quickly recovered as he saw the newspaper on the nightstand and realized it wasn’t a dream—it really happened.

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My Father Won the Lottery & It Was the Best Mother’s Day Gift

He got up and went to the table and asked my grandmother if she had played the day before, as he had the newspaper with the list of winning numbers. My grandma played every now and then and just happened to buy a ticket that Sunday since it was Mother’s Day.

Dad: Did you play the lottery yesterday?
Grandma: Actually, I did. I have un pedacito. Did you play? she asked, surprised.
Dad: Yes, I went to el barrio yesterday morning, and Sergio came to Teófila’s. She insisted so much. You know I really didn’t want to play, but she was persistent, so I did.
Grandma: How many did you buy?
Dad: I bought two. I was only going to buy one, but…
Grandma: Yeah, you just don’t buy one ticket. Let me see.

My dad handed her the tickets so she could check the numbers herself. She started checking the lower winning numbers to see if there was something there, but quickly realized they hadn’t won—or so she thought. Dad asked her if she had only checked the lower numbers, the ones that didn’t pay much. “Of course,” she said, “what do you expect? At least maybe we made 300 pesos, but nothing, nos pelamos.”

Knowing what he knew, he insisted she check the big prize numbers. As she checked her own with no luck—the number 86 was also a loss—my father’s hands were sweating with contained emotion. Without much excitement, my grandmother grabbed the last ticket, number 84, and started checking the paper.

“Oh! Wait a minute,” she said. “I think you won el ¡premio mayor! Oh, my God, this is the best Mother’s Day gift ever!” She was shocked, in disbelief, but so joyful to know that this money meant the continuation of building her house. It wasn’t a lot of money to many, but for my family, it was a godsend—a way to put a roof over our heads in a bigger house.

It was especially a moment of triumph for my grandmother, who was born an orphan in a small town in San Cristobal and had worked so hard all her life. We were still poor, but this was a huge step towards security. This is one of my favorite stories of my childhood, as I can almost feel the joy my grandma felt in that moment.

I was three, and for a magical moment, we had everything we needed, and then some.