My Twin Brother Stole My $50 Million Lottery Ticket, So I Called the Cops—AITA?
Look, I’m gonna level with you: I never thought I’d be the guy typing “how to get your identical twin arrested for grand larceny” into a search bar at 3 AM, but here we are. Life’s a buffet of cosmic jokes, and I just got served a heaping plate of “LOL, you thought.” So, buckle up, buttercup, because this is the story of how my twin brother, David Bromstad (yes, that David Bromstad—the HGTV guy with the sparkle and the tattoos), allegedly tried to pull a fast one on me that would make Frank Abagnale Jr. blush. And no, I’m not talking about that time he painted a room with a color called “Gaslight.” I’m talking about a $50 million lottery ticket that was supposed to be mine, and the ensuing dumpster fire that’s currently lighting up my DMs like a bad Tinder match.
For context, I’m Chris, and David and I are fraternal twins—though, let’s be real, we’re more like the “before” and “after” photos of a very specific life choice. He’s the one who got the HGTV fame, the glittery shirts, and the ability to make a room look like a unicorn vomited on it in the best way possible. I’m the one who works a 9-to-5 in accounting and has a retirement plan that’s basically just a prayer to the 401(k) gods. We’re not exactly estranged, but we’re not “call each other to cry about our exes” close either. So, when he called me last Tuesday, I should’ve known something was up. He never calls. He sends glittery emoji-riddled texts like a normal person.
“Hey, bro,” he said, voice all syrupy sweet like he was trying to sell me a timeshare. “I found something that belongs to you. Come over.”
I thought it was probably my old PlayStation or that hoodie I left at his place in 2019. You know, the one with the mustard stain that I’m pretty sure he wore on an episode of “Beach Flip.” So I drove over to his Miami penthouse—because of course he has a Miami penthouse, the guy probably brushes his teeth with artisanal glitter—and walked in to find him holding a lottery ticket over his head like it was Excalibur.
“Dude,” he said, grinning like a maniac. “You’re not gonna believe this. I found this ticket in your old jacket from like, three years ago. I checked the numbers. It’s a winner. $50 million.”
Now, let’s pause here. I’m not a complete idiot. I know that lottery tickets are basically pieces of paper that exist to make you cry into a gas station coffee. But I also know that I bought a ticket in 2021 on a whim, during that weird “I’ll just buy one, what’s the worst that could happen?” phase we all have after watching a “Lottery Changed My Life” documentary at 2 AM. I shoved it in a jacket pocket and promptly forgot about it because, shocker, I’m a normal person with a job and a cat who judges me.
So, David hands me the ticket, and I’m staring at it like it’s a golden ticket from Willy Wonka’s more bougie cousin. The numbers match. They fucking match. I’m about to do a happy dance that would make a TikTok influencer cringe, when David drops the bomb.
“So, about that,” he says, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain. “Since I found it, I think we should split it. 50-50. I mean, I could’ve just cashed it myself, but I’m being a good brother. See? I’m a good person.”
I laughed. I thought he was joking. He was not joking. He had that look in his eyes—the same one he gets when he’s about to paint a room a color called “Corporate Chaos” and call it art. The dude was serious. My twin brother, the guy who’s literally worth millions from his TV career, was trying to claim half of my $50 million lottery ticket because he “found” it in my own jacket that I left at his house.
I said no. I said, “David, that’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works. You don’t get a finder’s fee for taking my jacket out of a closet.” He got all huffy and said, “But I found it! It’s like a treasure hunt! I’m the one who recognized the value!”
At this point, I’m starting to wonder if I’m in a deleted scene from “Succession” but with more glitter. I grabbed the ticket and told him I was leaving. He said, “Fine, but you’ll regret this.” And I thought, “Yeah, sure, buddy. I’ll regret being $50 million richer and not giving you a cut because you did me the solid of not throwing away my trash.”
Here’s where it gets spicy. I get home, shove the ticket in a safe deposit box at my bank because I’m not a moron, and start planning my early retirement. I’m thinking about buying a small island and naming it “No Bromstads Allowed.” Then, three days later, I get a call from my lawyer.
“Chris,” he says, in that voice lawyers use when they’re about to drop a piano on your head, “your brother filed a police report. He’s claiming you stole the ticket from him.”
I laughed again. Then I stopped laughing when my lawyer said, “He’s also claiming that you two had a verbal agreement to split the winnings, and that you’re violating it. He’s got text messages.”
TEXT MESSAGES. The little weasel had
Final Thoughts
David Bromstad’s career arc is a masterclass in leveraging raw talent without losing one’s authentic spark—he parlayed a “Design Star” victory into a decade-plus run not just by being a skilled artist, but by being unapologetically himself in a reality-TV landscape that often pressures contestants into safe, corporate molds. What strikes me most is how he turned a potentially limiting niche—whimsical, color-saturated maximalism—into a signature brand that resonates precisely because it feels like genuine self-expression rather than a focus-grouped gimmick. In an industry where many burn out or fade into obscurity, Bromstad’s longevity proves that the most sustainable currency in entertainment isn’t just talent, but the courage to stay distinct.