I kept writing.
My deed from 2019 showed the transfer from Silas Merrick’s estate to me. My driver’s license showed my actual address. Five years of property tax receipts showed my payments. Insurance documents showed me as the named insured. I stapled everything like I was trying to pin my life to the floor.
At 9:14, Jasmine date-stamped the motion and said, “Courtroom Four. Right now.”
Courtroom Four smelled like lemon wood polish and wet wool. The benches were already half full with people clutching folders, muttering to lawyers, staring at the floor in private dread. My parents sat in the front row with a man I recognized on sight as expensive counsel: silver hair, dark suit, red tie with tiny blue dots, briefcase that looked like it had opinions.
My mother wore soft mauve. My father wore concern like it had been tailored. Up close, they looked exactly the way people look when they want a judge to think they give to symphonies.
