My mother let out a soft, mocking laugh that sounded like glass breaking. “Listen to her, acting like she’s a high-court justice again,” she said, glancing at the stranger for approval.
I looked past her and locked eyes with the man holding the folder. “Who are you exactly?” I asked.
He hesitated for a heartbeat, clearly surprised that I was asking for a process instead of weeping. “Grant Miller,” he replied, adjusting his collar. “Oak Valley Partners. We are bringing modern housing and infrastructure to this county.”
He spoke about progress and growth in a language that had no mud on it, a language that ignored the roots being torn up. My father suddenly shoved a thick stack of papers toward my chest, forcing me to take a step back.
“Sign the acknowledgment,” he commanded. “Stop acting like you have a say in this.”
I did not reach for the documents, letting them flutter in the wind between us for a long, tense moment. “Sign what?” I asked calmly.
“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.”
“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.”