*Disclaimer: This story draws inspiration from a real-life case in October 2024. Character names have been altered. The narrative remains 90% faithful to the actual events.
Gently smoothing the edges of her jacket, Mrs. Nguyen quietly gazed at her reflection in the mirror. It had been a long time since she last had the chance to dress so neatly and properly like this. It wasn’t anything extravagant—just a pink round-neck T-shirt, a pair of dark pants, and an old, slightly worn ivory blazer layered on top. Mrs. Nguyen suddenly let out a faint smile as she realized she looked exactly like a teacher preparing to head to class. But that smile didn’t last long. The harsh reality quickly brought her back down to earth. She remembered she wasn’t a teacher, but a farmer who spent her days tending to the fields. Today, she was indeed going out, but not to teach anyone. Today, she was going to court—to hear the verdict about the 2 billion VND ($78,000) prize that the lottery company had refused to pay her six months ago.
Mrs. Nguyen still remembered that day vividly, a late afternoon in mid-October of the previous year. After finishing her work in the fields, she hurriedly rode her bike home, trying to beat the rain that was about to pour. Dark clouds gradually swallowed the sky, ready to unleash a downpour at any moment.
As she passed by the familiar lottery shop, Mrs. Nguyen hesitated briefly before deciding to stop and buy a few tickets. She wasn’t the type to be obsessed with this game of chance, but like so many others, the fleeting dream of hitting the jackpot and changing her life would occasionally flicker in her mind. Today was one of those days—she simply felt an overwhelming urge to test her luck. So, she gritted her teeth, pulled out a 20,000 VND ($0.80) note, and exchanged it for two Thua Thien Hue lottery tickets. She quickly glanced at the last two digits—52—before tucking them into another polymer bill and stuffing them into her pocket. Fifty-two, coincidentally, was also her age.
Barely a minute after leaving the shop, the rain came crashing down. By the time she got home, she was soaked to the bone. Remembering the tickets in her pocket, she hurriedly pulled them out to check. Unsurprisingly, both were drenched. With careful fingers, she tried to separate them as gently as possible, but one ended up tearing at the corner. The digit “2” was almost entirely missing its base, though overall, it was still easy to tell what the numbers were. Mrs. Nguyen laid the two tickets out on the living room table to dry, then went to change and clean up.
At exactly 7:10 PM, she placed a reheated tray of food on the table and turned on the TV, just in time for the lottery broadcast. She glanced at the tickets beside her again. Ticket number 201352 was still intact. Ticket number 301352, with its missing corner, lay next to it. Picking up a piece of boiled water spinach, Mrs. Nguyen focused intently as the numbers began to roll across the screen.
Eighth prize, seventh prize, then sixth, fifth. One by one, the numbers were announced, but hers were nowhere to be found.
Fourth prize, third prize, second prize, then first prize. Still nothing. Mrs. Nguyen accepted that her 20,000 VND was gone.
But then, at the moment she least expected it, there it was.
301352
The jackpot number flashed on the screen, leaving Mrs. Nguyen speechless for nearly a minute. Then she let out a loud scream as her brain finally processed that she had won the grand prize. Her son, Nhan, who was in his room, came running out at the sound of her shout, only to join her in equal excitement when she told him about the tickets and the 2 billion VND jackpot.
Joy enveloped the mother and son, but worry soon crept in. Both tickets were still wet, and worse, the winning one was the one with the torn corner. Nhan suggested they dry the tickets first before deciding what to do. He grabbed a plate from the kitchen, carefully placed the tickets on it, and held it near the stove to dry them. After more than half an hour, both tickets were mostly dry, though slightly wrinkled. They weren’t in terrible shape—except for that missing corner of the jackpot ticket, which had somehow disappeared entirely.
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The very next day, Mrs. Nguyen and her son rode straight to the lottery agency to claim their prize. Both were anxious, unsure if they’d face any trouble. Mrs. Nguyen reassured her son firmly: the ticket might be torn, but every number was still perfectly clear. If they refused to pay, she’d fight to the end.
A representative from the Thua Thien Hue Lottery Company met them directly. He took the two damaged tickets and examined them meticulously—especially the jackpot ticket worth 2 billion VND with its missing corner. Oddly, he paid little attention to the other ticket, which had won a 50 million VND ($2000) consolation prize and was far more crumpled. After a thorough inspection, he told them to go home for now; the company would evaluate the situation and provide a resolution later.
As Nhan drove her home, Mrs. Nguyen felt an uneasy premonition stirring in her chest.
Her fears were confirmed just three days later. The lottery company announced they would only pay the 50 million VND for the consolation prize ticket. As for the 2 billion VND jackpot, they claimed the ticket was no longer fully intact—the digit “2” at the end lacked sufficient evidence to confirm it as a “2”—and thus, it was deemed invalid and ineligible for the prize.
From that moment, the longest months of Mrs. Nguyen’s life began. How could she sit still with such an absurd decision? She resolved to pursue the matter to the very end to claim what was rightfully hers. She agreed to pay the lottery company 12 million VND ($470) to have the torn ticket submitted to the police for verification. The Thua Thien Hue provincial police’s forensic report concluded that her jackpot ticket was genuine, with no signs of forgery or tampering. Yet, on November 14—exactly one month after her win—the lottery company still refused to pay the 2 billion VND, citing the missing base of the final digit as insufficient evidence of its original form.
Mrs. Nguyen, of course, couldn’t accept this. “Insufficient evidence of its original form”—what a laughable excuse. The “2” was as clear as day, yet they claimed it wasn’t enough. She didn’t care about their reasoning. All she knew was that she was the rightful owner of that prize money. She would fight for it, even if it meant taking it to court.
Nearly five grueling months passed, and finally, the day of judgment arrived. Lawyer Hoang, a young man in his early thirties, led a team of four attorneys to represent Mrs. Nguyen. Through their months of working together on the case, she had come to trust him completely—he was sharp and dependable.
At 8:00 AM sharp, the trial began.
The court went through the formalities, confirming the presence of both parties. The plaintiff’s side included Mrs. Nguyen and her legal team. The defendant was represented by Mr. Phuong, the director of the Thua Thien Hue Lottery Company, acting under authorization. Of the four witnesses, only one was present; the other three had submitted requests to be absent. No new evidence was introduced. The court moved to the debate phase.
Lawyer Hoang, representing the plaintiff, spoke first. With all the evidence in hand, he confidently laid out his arguments. First, the jackpot ticket was authentic, as verified by the Hue City Police. Second, though it was missing a corner, the base of the digit “2” was not entirely gone—half of it remained, making it unmistakable as a “2” and not any other digit. Finally, beyond the large main number sequence, there was a smaller secondary sequence printed in the middle of the ticket, clearly displaying “301352”—the exact jackpot number.
Next, the defendant presented their rebuttal. They insisted the company was always willing to pay winners, provided the ticket met legal standards. The damage to Mrs. Nguyen’s ticket, they argued, was entirely her fault, rendering it no longer fully intact. The rules printed on the back of every ticket explicitly stated this requirement.
Lawyer Hoang immediately stood up again, digging deeper into the ticket’s design. He pointed out two critical features: the QR code and the secondary number sequence. “If they’re printed on the ticket, they must serve a purpose,” he asserted boldly. “Why else would they be there? Isn’t the QR code meant to hold information? Isn’t the secondary sequence the same?”
His compelling arguments left the defendant scrambling for a response. In the end, Mr. Phuong could only claim that the QR code and secondary sequence were “trade secrets.” Closing the debate, he added, “In the past, we’ve paid out for tickets torn into multiple pieces because all the pieces could still be reassembled. In this case, the missing part is gone forever. Paying this would set a bad precedent. But if the court rules we must pay, we’ll comply!”
Sitting in the front row, Mrs. Nguyen’s heart pounded as she followed the exchanges between the lawyers and the judge’s questions. The past few months suddenly felt like a fleeting moment; these hours in court stretched on endlessly. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to keep her heart from leaping out. Lawyer Van, seated beside her, noticed her tension. She gently squeezed Mrs. Nguyen’s hand and whispered, “It’s almost over. Don’t worry too much!”
Just as Lawyer Van finished speaking, the judicial panel stood up, calling everyone to rise for the verdict.
Mrs. Nguyen’s heart raced faster than ever. The moment had come—the most critical moment of all. A chill ran down her spine as her mind raced to the worst outcome: the court declaring her ticket invalid, leaving her without the 2 billion VND. Two billion VND—an enormous, life-changing sum for her and her son. They scraped by year-round on a tiny plot of land; that money would make their lives so much easier. If the court ruled against her, what would she do? Would she keep fighting? Did she have the strength—or the money—to keep going? The past few months had worn her down. The fire of determination in her had dimmed. She was exhausted.
“…torn due to objective reasons…original form…no fraud…still within validity…”
The panel’s words slipped past her in a blur. Only when the decisive ruling came did she snap back to reality:
“…The Judicial Panel accepts and agrees with the plaintiff’s claims, compelling the Thua Thien Hue Lottery Company to pay Mrs. Nguyen the 2 billion VND prize for her winning ticket.”
Everything burst open before her eyes. It was over—she had finally reclaimed what was rightfully hers. She let out a heavy breath, releasing the tension that had gripped her since morning. Tearfully, she clasped Lawyer Hoang’s hands tightly. “Thank you so much for helping me!”
Lawyer Hoang patted her weathered hands gently, smiling warmly. “No, I should be thanking you. Thanks to your case, we’ve set a precedent for handling disputes like this in lottery prize claims. From now on, people in situations like yours will have an easier path ahead!”
THE END
Written on March 31, 2025
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