My parents stood in the middle of Grandpa’s farm, told me they’d already sold the land to a developer, shoved “consent” papers at my chest, and sneered that I didn’t own a thing, but when I asked for the probate file number, my dad snapped, my mom smirked, and I drove straight to the county clerk instead

I felt my stomach tighten, but I refused to let my composure slip in front of the man in the blue shirt. “If it is yours to handle, then show me the formal probate case number for the transfer.”

My mother let out a soft, mocking laugh that sounded like glass breaking. “Listen to her, acting like she’s a high-court justice again,” she said, glancing at the stranger for approval.

I looked past her and locked eyes with the man holding the folder. “Who are you exactly?” I asked.

He hesitated for a heartbeat, clearly surprised that I was asking for a process instead of weeping. “Grant Miller,” he replied, adjusting his collar. “Oak Valley Partners. We are bringing modern housing and infrastructure to this county.”

He spoke about progress and growth in a language that had no mud on it, a language that ignored the roots being torn up. My father suddenly shoved a thick stack of papers toward my chest, forcing me to take a step back.

“Sign the acknowledgment,” he commanded. “Stop acting like you have a say in this.”

I did not reach for the documents, letting them flutter in the wind between us for a long, tense moment. “Sign what?” I asked calmly.