I didn’t understand anything of the rough days. I knew my family was poor, even at the age of 10. I didnt realize how bad it was though. I didn’t understand all the things that would have happened. I didn’t understand parents when they said they couldn’t buy me things anymore. Most important, I didn’t understand why those numbers were always so important. Each week, there would be a new set of numbers my parents would pry into their minds, and pray for, but they always seemed to be the wrong ones. Even when we were about to lose our house, and everything we ever had, my parents bought their last set of numbers. They had promised theirself it was the last time. They kept hoping they were going to get lucky. I rememember the night perfectly. We were all crowded around our tiny, black and white tv. My parents, my brother and sisters, my parents were crying and praying, begging for the numbers to be right. I didn’t understand why my parents screamed with joy when they were right. Then, we got the money.