But then his hands started shaking. It started with a small twitch in his right thumb when he was eighty-six. By eighty-seven, he couldn’t hold his coffee mug without spilling it.

He had to use a big plastic thermal cup with a lid just to keep from burning his lap.

The last two years of his life, his handwriting looked like a bird had walked across the page in wet ink.

He couldn’t even sign a check for the seed store. I had to write them out, and he would make a messy, shaking mark at the bottom. The banker in town, old Mr. Henderson, knew about it and always cleared them anyway.

Grandpa died at eighty-nine. He passed away quietly in his sleep on a Tuesday night. I was devastated, but I knew what I had to do. I took the green tackle box down from his closet, pulled out the will we’d had drawn up ten years ago, and drove to the county courthouse.

That brings us back to Brenda behind the desk, telling me my uncle owned the farm. I walked out of the courthouse and stood on the gravel parking lot, the wind whipping dust against my jeans. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely unlock my truck.

I sat in the driver’s seat and called my Uncle Gerald. He answered on the fourth ring. I could hear him chewing. It sounded like he was eating egg salad. The sound of his fork clinking against the plate made my stomach roll.

“Gerald,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m at the county clerk’s office. Why is there a quitclaim deed with your name on it?”

He let out a short, wet chuckle before he swallowed. “Well, Grandpa wanted me to have it.

He realized at the end that a kid like you couldn’t handle a property of that size. It’s a lot of responsibility.”

“The will says the farm goes to me,” I said, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth ached. “We wrote it down. It’s in his tackle box.”

“Will says whatever, kiddo,” Gerald said, his voice completely casual. “But the deed is the deed. The county has the paper, and my name is on it. Go ahead and call a lawyer if you want, but it’s already done.”

He hung up. I sat there in the quiet cabin of my truck, staring at the steering wheel. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just felt this cold, dead weight settle into my chest.

I hired a lawyer named Sarah Kelly. She cost me fifty-five hundred dollars, which was basically my entire savings account after paying for Grandpa’s headstone. She pulled the quitclaim deed from the county archives and printed out a copy for me.

When she slid the paper across her desk, I stared at the signature at the bottom. It was perfect.