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

“Which title firm is handling the escrow?” I asked, turning my focus back to the professional. His mouth opened and shut quickly, and I caught my mother’s eyes flicking toward him in a brief moment of panic.

“That doesn’t concern you,” my father interrupted, grabbing the papers back. “Go play detective if you want, but you’ll come back and apologize when you realize you aren’t in charge.”

I took the papers from him this time because I knew that ink always left a trail. I scanned the first page and felt a chill when I saw no case numbers, only vague language meant to trick me into waiving my rights.

“No,” I said, handing the prop back to him. My father’s jaw set hard as he told me I could watch the bulldozers roll in from the road.

I walked to my vehicle without saying another word, ignoring my mother’s whispered insults about my solitary life. I drove straight to the county administration building, a low brick structure that smelled of old paper and industrial cleaner.

Inside, the lighting was harsh and honest, reflecting off the waxed floors. I approached the records desk where a woman with tired eyes and reading glasses sat behind a glass partition.