Quitclaim deed.
Below them, I saw Henrietta Lockridge’s name.
Then mine.
ELNORA RUTHANNE WHITSETT.
The document described thirty-eight acres beside Hampshire Pike.
Including the small white house.
The pecan grove.
And the surrounding land.
I looked at Rosella.
“I don’t understand.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Henrietta transferred her interest in that property to you before she died.”
I stared at the page.
“Thirty-eight acres?”
Rosella nodded.
“The same land your family lived and worked on for generations.”
Then she pointed toward a paragraph at the bottom.
It explained that the transfer wasn’t intended as an ordinary gift.
Henrietta had discovered records suggesting that the land once belonged to my great-grandfather, Isaac Whitsett.
He had purchased the property in 1879.
But decades later, during the Great Depression, it had passed into Lockridge ownership through a disputed tax sale.
I stared at the paragraph.
“My great-grandfather owned this land?”
