My parents were standing in the middle of my grandfather’s farm. They told me they’d already sold the land to a property developer, shoved some “consent” papers against my chest, and mocked me, saying I didn’t own anything. But when I asked for the probate file number, my father exploded, my mother smirked, and I drove straight to the county clerk’s office instead of signing anything…

“I’ll review it first.”

They handed me the copies with blue seals, signatures, and folio numbers. I opened the will with steady hands, though inside I felt like I was being torn apart.

My grandfather hadn’t left the ranch to my parents.

He had left it to me.

To Valeria Ramírez Morales, his granddaughter.

He had also named me as executor.

Not “whenever possible.” Not “if my parents agreed.” Not “to share.” The ranch, with its full description, its hectares