I leaned back in the metal diner chair, breathing in the smell of coffee and fried masa, and let the camera feed steady me. I had chosen that table carefully. From there I could see the road, the gate, and the edge of my land without being seen unless I wanted to be.
Ethan, my lawyer, had warned me not to improvise, not to let anger outrun evidence, and not to mistake drama for usefulness. So I kept my voice even and started with facts.
“That house belonged to my father before he died,” I said. “He left me half, and I bought out the rest years before I married Daniel. My name is on the title. My money paid for the repairs, the roof, the kitchen tile, the irrigation system, the cameras, and every single brick in that back wall your mother loves showing off in photos.”
One aunt shifted the tray in her hands. Another frowned at Daniel as if she were doing math in real time. Helena clicked her tongue loudly and stepped closer to the phone, as though volume could erase evidence. But I could hear the difference outside the gate. They were no longer waiting to be invited in. They were listening.