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

Deputy Landry flipped through the pages slowly.

Then he tapped one sheet.

“Where’s the recorded deed?”

My father’s mouth tightened.

“It’s in process.”

The deputy looked at me.

“Do you have the recorded notice?”

“Yes.”

I handed him the receipts. He read them. Then he stepped aside and spoke into his radio.

“Dispatch, can you run a records check on the parcel and confirm any recorded notices today? Instrument number is—”

He read it off.

While he waited, my mother leaned slightly toward me, her voice low.

“You think you’re so smart.”

I kept my eyes on the deputy and said nothing.

People like my mother hate silence when silence is backed by records.

The radio crackled.

“Parcel shows notice of pending action recorded this afternoon and probate-related notice. Title flagged for dispute.”

Deputy Landry looked back at my parents.

“Okay,” he said, voice firmer now. “This is a civil dispute with active filings. I’m not removing her for trespass tonight.”

My father flushed dark red.

“So she can just do whatever she wants?”

“No,” the deputy said. “Neither can you.”

He turned slightly toward my mother.