Mr. Harris called me on Monday.
He had reviewed the documents again and prepared a list of additional records we needed.
He wanted the complete chain of title for the property and the available filings connected to Rosella's estate.
He also wanted to establish whether any later instrument had changed the arrangement described in the older records.
I wrote down each item as he named it.
When he finished, I asked how long it might take.
"Some records are easy to locate," he said. "Others may take longer. We'll work through them in order."
I thanked him and hung up.
For the first time, I understood the size of the task.
I had begun with one name in one book.
Now I had several documents, multiple dates, and a list of questions that could not be answered by looking at a single page.
I was tempted to put everything away and stop thinking about it.
The thought lasted only a moment.
I had already come too far to abandon the process out of fear.
That afternoon, I returned to the courthouse website to review the instructions for requesting the remaining records.
I wrote down the filing references Mr. Harris had provided.
I checked them twice before submitting the request.
Then I placed the confirmation beside my other papers.
It was a small step, but it was a step.
The following morning, Rosella's friend called.
She had received a message from one of Rosella's sons asking whether I was still looking into the property.
She told me because she thought I should know.
"What did you say?" I asked.
"I told him you were obtaining copies of public records and seeking advice about what they meant."
"Was he angry?"
"He sounded worried."
I sat back in my chair.
I had expected anger.
Worry was harder to understand because it left room for several possibilities.
"Did he ask what I was claiming?"
"He asked whether you had said you owned the land. I told him you had not."
I thanked her.
Then I sat quietly, thinking about the conversation.
Rosella's sons had their own lives and their own expectations.
They had grown up in the family that owned the farmhouse.
They might have believed the land would pass to them without complication.
The discovery of my name could have shaken that belief.
I could understand their concern without agreeing that I should stop asking questions.
I did not want them to think I was working against them.
I also did not want to let their concern determine what the records meant.
I decided to call Rosella's older son myself.
I waited until the afternoon, when I thought he might be finished with work.
He answered after several rings.
"Elnora?"
"Yes. I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"What is it?"
"I wanted to speak plainly about the courthouse records."
He did not answer immediately.
I continued.
"I have not claimed the property. I have not told anyone that your mother promised it to me. I am trying to understand why my name appears in the record."
He let out a breath.
"I don't know why it's there."
That was the first time he had said it without arguing about my right to ask.
"Do you know when the record was created?" I asked.
"No."
"Did your mother ever mention an arrangement involving me?"
"No. Not to me."
I held the telephone more tightly.
"Then perhaps we both need to understand what she did."
He was quiet.
I heard a faint sound in the background, perhaps a door closing.
"Have you hired a lawyer?" he asked.
"I spoke with a real estate attorney to help me read the documents."
"So you're taking legal action?"
"No. I'm asking for advice about what the records mean."
He seemed unconvinced.
"I don't want this turning into a dispute."
"Neither do I."
"Then why involve an attorney?"
"Because I don't understand the documents, and I don't want to make a mistake."
I kept my voice even.
"I would rather ask someone who knows the law than tell you something that turns out to be wrong."
He did not respond.
I waited.
At last, he said, "My brother and I have been trying to sort out Mother's affairs. There are things we haven't been able to find."
I sat straighter.
"What sort of things?"
"Documents. Papers she kept in the house. Some of her records were organized, and some weren't."
I thought of the separate piles on Rosella's desk.
She had been particular, but she had also kept papers for years.
A person could be organized about daily work and still leave a complicated collection behind.
"Have you found the original instrument?" I asked.
"No."
"Have you asked the courthouse for it?"
"We've asked for records related to the estate, but I don't know whether we've requested that specific document."
I looked at the folder on the table.
It was possible that neither of us had all the information.
That did not mean our interests were the same.
It did mean the truth might be more complicated than either side had assumed.
"I can give you the reference number," I said. "It might help you find the same record."
He hesitated.
"Would you do that?"
"Yes."
I read the number from my notebook.
He asked me to repeat it, and I did.
Then I gave him the date and the name of the records office.
He wrote it down.
"Thank you," he said.
It was not warm, but it was different from our conversation at the grocery store.
I did not mistake that difference for trust.
It was simply a better conversation.
Before hanging up, he said, "I still don't understand why Mother would put your name there without telling us."
"I don't understand it either."
"She told us some things and kept others to herself."
I thought about how often Rosella had stopped in the middle of a sentence.
"That sounds like her," I said.
He gave a short sigh.
"I'll see what we can find."
"All right."
We ended the call without an argument.
I sat at the table for a long time afterward.
I had not expected Rosella's son to admit that he lacked information.
It made me feel less alone in the confusion.
It also reminded me that I needed to be careful.
He might have been sincere.
He might have been trying to find out what I knew.
There was no way to tell from one telephone call.
I wrote down the date and the main points of our conversation.
I did not write that we had reached an agreement.
We had not.
We had only exchanged information.
That evening, I spoke to Rosella's friend again.
She listened while I described the call.
"I'm glad you spoke calmly," she said.
"So am I."
"Does he believe you?"
"I don't know."
She paused.
"Maybe he doesn't have to believe anything yet. Maybe he needs to see the documents too."
That sounded fair.
I had spent days worrying that Rosella's sons would see me as an intruder.
I could not control what they believed.
I could control whether I was honest with them.
The next morning, I placed the courthouse confirmation in the folder and checked the drawer where I kept my important papers.
Everything was there.
I then wrote a short list of things I would not do.
I would not claim ownership before the records supported it.
I would not sign away anything because someone wanted the matter settled quickly.
I would not accuse Rosella's sons of hiding documents without evidence.
And I would not let embarrassment stop me from asking questions.
I read the list twice.
It seemed almost too simple to be useful.
But simple rules were easier to follow when emotions became difficult.
For the rest of the week, I kept my routine.
I went shopping on Thursday.
I cleaned the bathroom on Friday.
I changed the sheets on Saturday morning and watered the plant on my windowsill.
The records remained in the drawer.
They did not demand attention every minute.
I was grateful for that.
I had begun to see that I could investigate the property without allowing it to consume every part of my life.
On Sunday afternoon, I sat at the kitchen table and looked at the first page again.
My name was still there.
The letters had not changed.
Neither had the date.
But I had changed.
At first, I had seen the entry and felt as if the ground beneath me had shifted.
Now I understood that a record could raise a question without answering it.
I could take the next step without knowing the ending.
I could speak to Rosella's son without surrendering my right to understand the document.
And I could hope that the truth would be fair without deciding in advance what fairness required.
I put the page back in the folder.
Then I closed the drawer.
For the moment, there was nothing more I could do.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: I Returned to Rosella’s Farmhouse Only After I Had a Reason, and the Familiar Kitchen Made Me Notice What I Had Overlooked
I Spent Twenty-Six Years Cleaning a Wealthy Woman’s Home Without Knowing Why She Never Let Me Leave It Behind
Part 15 of 20
