“It’s a consent form for the title company,” he growled. “You don’t own a single blade of grass here, but this makes the closing process move faster.”
My mother leaned in, her voice becoming a sweet, sharp whisper. “You own nothing here,” she repeated, as if she wanted the sentence to sink into the very soil.
I remembered the summer I returned from university and found my grandfather on the porch with a weathered manila envelope. He had tapped that envelope with his knuckles and told me that people act differently once land is converted into cash.
“I am not signing anything on the hood of a truck,” I told them. “If this transaction is legitimate, it will survive the scrutiny of an official records search.”
My father’s face flushed a deep, angry red. “Don’t do this, Tessa,” he warned, using my full name to try and regain his fading authority.
Grant Miller cleared his throat, trying to stay out of the family crossfire. “Ms. Cooper, we have a signed purchase agreement and a survey crew arriving at dawn tomorrow.”