“Then I’m not signing.”
My mom smiled even wider.
“Do whatever you want. The surveyors are coming tomorrow.”
I looked toward the old house, the walnut trees, the corral where my grandfather taught me to saddle a horse. Then I handed the papers back.
“If everything is legal, it should be on file with the Public Registry.”
My dad laughed.
“Go put on your show. When you get back, you’re going to apologize.”
I didn’t answer. I got in my truck and drove straight to the Public Registry of Property in downtown Guadalajara, my heart pounding in my ribs.
A woman named Marisol helped me at the window. I gave her my grandfather’s name, Ernesto Ramírez Aguilar, and the ranch’s registration number. She typed for several minutes.
Suddenly, she stopped.
“There’s a recent entry,” she said.
“A sale?”
“An attempted transfer. But something’s off.”
She looked at me over her glasses.
“There’s no registered probate proceeding. And here’s a will linked to the file.”
I felt the air drain from the room.
“A will?”
Marisol lowered her voice.
“Yes. And someone consulted it yesterday.”
“Who?”
She typed again. Her expression changed.
“Graciela Morales de Ramírez.”
My mother.
Marisol swallowed.
“She requested a certified copy yesterday morning.”
A chill ran down my spine.
My mother had seen the will before telling me I didn’t own anything.
And yet, they had tried to sell.
PART 2
“Print it all out for me,” I said. “The will, the request for a copy, the folio entry, and any other documents they submitted for the sale.”
Marisol hesitated.
“I can’t give you legal advice.”
“I don’t need advice. I need certified copies.”
She called her supervisor, a serious man named Licenciado Cárdenas, who checked the screen without asking pointless questions. When he saw my mother’s inquiry record, he clenched his jaw.
“This needs to be reviewed by a judge,” he said.
