I sensed it when the second ball fell.

Jacqui was slower, of course. From the corner of my eye I saw her look quickly at the ticket in her hand, and back at the screen.
“Here,” she said, after they called the third one. “That’s three of our numbers in one row. Three out of three!”
“So far,” I agreed into my beer. But I knew. 
More than three decades I’ve done this – I know all twelve rows without looking at the ticket – and I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve had the first two in one line. Until now I’ve always been knocked out for the big one by the third ball.
“Swank pad in town,” breathed Jacqui, eyes lit up.
I said nothing. Always fancied breeding horses, myself.
“I don’t believe it!” she shrieked. “We’ve got the first four numbers drawn!”
A big old farmhouse where my mates can leave their cars for months while they’re working on them, play music as loud as we like, sit up all night playing poker, crash out any old where. And what’s this ‘we’, anyway? In what sense are they ‘our’ numbers? I was playing these numbers long before Jacqui came along.
She was out of her chair, literally jiggling about behind me.
“What do you get for five?” 
I shrugged. “Depends how many have got them, apart from us.” The ‘us’ came out kind-of strangled.
“It would be life-changing, though, wouldn’t it?”
“Nah. More like a good night out, or a cheap holiday.”
Six is life-changing. I’m sure six is always life-changing.
“Or we could get Cindy a decent computer.”
I felt the blood suffuse my face. I nearly said it aloud, then: your kid, my numbers. That’s what we each had when we met, Jacqui. You had a kid, I had these numbers. Fair’s fair.