My Husband Sold My Two Million Dollar Land For Five Dollars To His Girlfriend
My father had always told me that some things belong only to the person who bleeds for them. I held the deed to the light, checking the gold seal at the bottom to make sure the county clerk’s stamp was still raised against the paper. It was still there, a solid physical ridge under my thumb.
I drove into Gentry with the red tin on the passenger seat, the windshield wipers slapping a steady rhythm against the gray Texas dusk.
Marcus Fitzgerald, my father’s old lawyer, sat behind a walnut desk that smelled of oil and lemon polish. He did not look like a man who spent his days in courtrooms, but his hands were steady as he polished his wire-rimmed glasses with a silk cloth. He laid the photocopy of the five dollar deed next to my father’s original document.
“They forged your signature and they did it badly,” Marcus said, pointing a gold pen at the bottom of the page.
“Is it that obvious?” I asked, my voice sounding thin in the quiet office.
