My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
“People have strange ways of protecting what they value,” Richard said, his pen resuming its rhythmic tap. “But this paperwork is the only thing that will hold up in a court of law.”
He turned to the last page and pointed to a line near the bottom.
“Once we sign this, we have to record the grant deed with the county,” he said. “It has to happen today.”
“I am ready,” I said.
He walked to the door of the conference room and called for his assistant, a middle-aged woman named Sarah who held a small black leather case.
“Sarah is our notary,” Richard said, pulling back his chair.
Sarah set the case on the table and opened it, revealing a small circular metal press and an ink pad.
“Please show me your identification, Emily,” Sarah said.
I handed her my driver’s license. She checked the photo, then wrote my name and the date in a large bound logbook.
“Place your right thumb on the pad,” Sarah said.
The ink was cold and thick. I pressed my thumb against the paper in her logbook, leaving a dark, swirly print next to my signature.
