That February morning was just like any other. I parked my Royal Mail van by the newsagent's, made my delivery and nipped to the counter for tobacco and scratchcards. It was a habit I'd fallen into – money had been tight for months. With three children to support, my wife and I frequently argued, so these cards offered the tantalising possibility of an easier life.

Still, under normal circumstances, I would never have bought 10 cards – one or two was usually my limit. But a friend had returned a £10 loan as I left the depot. At the counter, I felt the crumpled note in my pocket and thought, "What the hell?"

I worked through the cards quickly, scratching off the silver, looking for three identical symbols in a row. Two of the 10 came up trumps – £1 and £5 respectively. A third tantalised me for a moment, as I revealed two £100,000 symbols side-by-side, but the pattern was broken: another £100,000 was on another row – no use to me. The newsagent fed the winning cards into a machine and as I left with my paltry earnings, I tossed the others into a bin outside the shop.

Still, I was only £4 down – no great loss. Back at work, I mentioned my flutter to a colleague and joked, "I'm such an unlucky bastard." We both laughed, although I only wish I could laugh about it now.

Next morning, the same colleague approached me waving a scratchcard of her own. "Looks like I'm luckier than you, Cemal," she said. "I only bought one card and I've won £25."

I was about to head out on my round, and offered to collect the prize for her. But when I glanced at the card, I assumed she was making a joke at my expense. "These £25 symbols aren't in a line," I said. "They're all over the place. Did you expect me to fall for this?"

She looked puzzled. "What do you mean? That's not how it works. You buy enough of these things, you must know that. The symbols can be anywhere."

I remember buying my first ever scratchcard. The rules were very clear, and I thought I'd followed them ever since, no matter what type of card I bought. But as I checked the small print now, I began to shake and sweat; a belt of anxiety tightened across my chest.

I drove straight to the newsagent's from the day before. Hardly breathing, I watched the owner feed the card into his machine. "It's a winner," he said.

I genuinely felt the blood drain from my face. "In that case, I threw away a hundred grand outside your shop yesterday," I said.

"I'm sorry," the shopkeeper said. "You won't find it there now. That bin's emptied every day – it's already been done this morning."

At that moment, my overriding feeling was of intense loneliness. I felt I had a burden no one else could ever understand – a sense of losing so much that could have been mine. But I still couldn't lose hope completely. I phoned Camelot, and was told to collect as much information as possible: the barcode and serial number of the ticket; where I'd bought it; at what time, and so on. With the help of the newsagent, I gathered everything together. Suddenly optimistic, my wife and I invited friends to the house for a celebratory party.

But a few days later a letter arrived from Camelot. It seemed the advice I'd received referred to a National Lottery win – as far as scratchcards were concerned, there was one hard and fast rule: no card, no prize. It was the final straw for my marriage: the arguments grew worse, and I moved into a friend's house.

Of course, I can't blame anyone for my financial difficulties, but that £100,000 could have made a difference. Three months later, I still get teased daily by workmates – school-yard stuff like, "Lend us £100,000, Cemal. It's nothing to you: you can afford to chuck it in the bin." It does make me feel useless, though I dare say I'd be doing the same in their position. They can't see how much it hurts – and I don't want to let them see.

My mum said to me, "Don't worry about it, Cemal. You haven't lost anything. If you never held the money in your hand, it was never truly yours." Perhaps she's right. One thing's for sure, I'll never buy another scratchcard. I'm far better off putting that £10 a week aside to pay for treats for my children. They don't seem to blame me for what's happened, so perhaps it's something I can learn to live with, one day.

• As told to Chris Broughton.

Do you have an experience to share? Email experience@theguardian.com