While I was at work, my parents, my sister, and her two kids were already hauling boxes into my mountain house. Mom smiled like it was settled. “We all live here now. It’s family property.” They planned their big “move-in day.” I planned something else.

“Bring everything you have,” he said after I explained the situation. “Deed, mortgage documents, the police reports, the CPS call details, the trespassing file, and every text message you still have saved.”

“All of that?” I asked.

“All of it,” he said. “This isn’t about the money. They’re applying pressure. We’re going to build a wall.”

The folder of documents I’d been growing for weeks suddenly seemed prophetic.

That afternoon, I drove into town and entered Gregory’s office—a small, tidy room filled with books whose spines looked worn from use. He adjusted his glasses, motioned for me to sit, and began sorting through the stack of papers I’d brought.

After a few minutes, he looked at me over the frames.

“They don’t have a case,” he said simply.

A breath I didn’t know I’d been holding escaped my lungs.

“They won’t win?”

“No,” he said. “But that isn’t the point. This lawsuit is designed to scare you. To force you to negotiate. To get you to bend.”

I rubbed my hands together, trying to dispel the chill under my skin.

“So what do I do?”

“We respond,” he said firmly. “And we counter.”

“Counter?” I repeated.

Gregory leaned back in his chair.