“Yes, Your Honor.”
Judge Simmons opened the court file.
Before I began, he looked at me once more.
“I remember your name,” he said. “And I remember why.”
Dad shifted sharply.
“Your Honor, this is supposed to be about the farmhouse.”
“It is,” the judge said. “Which is why facts matter.”
I explained that my grandfather had transferred the farmhouse to me and that the certified deed named me as the owner.
I explained that I had paid the property taxes every year since 2013.
I placed the receipts in chronological order.
I included the roof repair invoice, the well-pump bill, and the insurance notices.
I did not give a speech about sacrifice.
I did not describe the convoy.
I did not tell the room how many nights I had spent awake after coming home.
I gave dates.
Dates were enough.
Dad leaned toward the table.
“Those receipts don’t prove she lived there.”
