I was driving to work when I heard the disc jockey say, "Now is the time to buy lottery tickets. The jackpot is $18 million."

I've never played the lottery, and so I've never entertained fantasies of winning. Until that moment.

I thought, "Wow, what would I do with $18 million?"

Here's what I came up with:

I'd buy one of those turn-of-the-century houses I've been eyeing in a quaint nearby town.
I'd pay off our debt.
I'd count the pennies that remain.
I'd introduce Colter to New York City.
I'd plan a trip to Yellowstone for my 40th birthday so Gary and Colter and I could see the place his namesake discovered.
I'd save for Colter's college.

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I happily daydreamed as I drove the rest of the way to work.

Work -- now there's a question: Would I quit my job? At first I thought not. I love my job. Then I realized, I could still do what I love -- coaching and editing writers -- but instead of publishing their work online, I could start a book company. And my first author would be my husband.

Maybe I could open a bookstore, too. Within walking distance of our home. I'd make it the kind of place people could hang out, meet a friend, learn something new.

Just before arriving at work, it hit me: I could do all of these things without winning the lottery. Which made me wonder, are my dreams too small?

A short time later, it occurred to me that there was nothing on my list to help others. So I took a quick inventory of who in my life needed the most assistance and I added to the list:

Move my in-laws to an assisted-living facility that they'd like, or get them a live-in or (at least) a cleaning lady ... whatever it would take to make them comfortable.

I had lunch with a friend and posed the question to her: What would you do if you won the lottery? She immediately answered, "I'd take all of my friends to Paris for dinner."

"Have you ever been to Paris?" I asked.
"No," she said.
"Why there?" I asked.
"Because the food's good."

Then she said she'd encourage her husband to retire, which would make him happy (he's in his 40s and actually loves his job, including the part where he gets to complain about it).

"Are you sure that's what would make him happy?" I asked. "Why don't you ask him what he'd do if he won the lottery, then you'll know."

Taking my own advice, I called Gary from work and asked what he'd do if he won the lottery. He said, "Move back to North Carolina."

WHAT?! All these months I've been expressing guilt about moving to Florida, away from his family and friends, and he's been reassuring me that he's happy here. And now this?! I was stunned. Stunned. And sad. And so glad I asked.

Several hours later, when I got home from work, we talked about it. He said he had decided he wouldn't move back to North Carolina, he'd just visit frequently. I said, "You can visit frequently now, without winning the lottery."

He said, "Nah, that's OK."

Sometimes the things we think we want are not the things we want at all.

It wasn't until we were in bed later that night that I realized how true this was. I had left something very important off the list: another child.

For years, we said we just wanted just one. Then, after my dad died, I started to think a second child would be good for us. Gary persuaded me that we really couldn't afford one, financially or emotionally. But still, I felt this nagging longing. Or at least, I thought I did.

Except that having another child didn't make the list of things I'd do if I won the lottery. It didn't even make the revised versions I mentally drew up over the course of the day. And once I thought about it, I realized I really didn't want another child. I'm happy with our family just the way it is, and so is Gary.

And that's OK, because if this experience has taught me anything, it's that my life is pretty much the way I want it. And knowing that, I feel like I've won the lottery already.

Which is a good thing, because I forgot to buy a ticket.

Julie Moos is a thirtysomething who lives with her husband and son. Her column appears every other Thursday. To read more of her thoughts, visit MomInTheMirror.com.