Following my husband’s burial, my son took me down a secluded road and declared, «Here’s where you step out…

William met me at his office door. He hadn’t aged much since James’s last visit—maybe a bit more stooped, but his eyes were keen. “Abigail,” he said, guiding me not to the desk but to two leather chairs by the window. He sat across from me, expression grave. “Tell me everything.”

So I did. I told him about the funeral. The forged will. The corporate-style talk in our kitchen. The drive. The roadside abandonment. Every detail. He listened without interrupting, nodding occasionally, his face darkening. When I finished, I opened my purse and took out the fireproof box.

From it, I pulled the original deed to the twenty acres James and I had set aside decades ago, in my name. William studied it with quiet reverence. “This,” he said, “this is gold, Abigail. This isn’t just land. It’s leverage. With the water rights and zoning, the developer can’t touch anything without this.”

“I know.”

He leaned back, tapping the deed thoughtfully. “The will Ethan submitted—it’s a forgery. I suspected as much when I saw the signature. Too clean for a man on hospice care. I knew it wasn’t James’s.”

“We’ll challenge it,” William said, “but that takes time. Meanwhile, we use this.” He held up the deed. “You still own the most critical piece of the land. They can’t proceed without your consent.”

“I want my home back,” I said softly, “and I want them to understand what they’ve done.”

William nodded. “Then we’ll make them understand. First, I’ll draft a letter to the developer. They need to know the property isn’t what they were promised.”

“Will they back out?”

“If they’re smart, they will. Developers hate lawsuits, and they especially hate incomplete land rights.” He stood, purposeful. “I also know a judge in district court. We can file a motion to freeze the sale until this is resolved.”..