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

“She’s been harassing us,” he said. “We sold the farm. She refuses to accept it. She’s trespassing and threatening workers.”

I didn’t react to the word threatening. That’s one of the advantages of documentation. People can say anything they want. Paper has fewer moods.

Deputy Landry looked at me.

“What’s your side?”

I didn’t say my side.

I said facts.

“There is a probate case filed today for my grandfather’s estate. A will was located and filed. A notice of pending action has been recorded against the parcel. The county recorder instrument numbers are here. If Cedar Ridge wants to dispute ownership, that’s for probate court. But the title is clouded right now.”

My mother scoffed.

“She’s lying. There’s no will.”

I didn’t turn toward her.

“My mother viewed the deposited will packet yesterday morning,” I said to the deputy, “and then signed an affidavit claiming there was no will. The county has the access log.”

Deputy Landry’s expression tightened slightly at the word affidavit.

He held out a hand toward my father.

“Do you have paperwork?”

My dad shoved his stack forward like a man presenting proof of manhood.

“Purchase contract. We already closed. She’s just mad.”