Driving home, I made my decisions the way I used to at the end of a long day at the courthouse. In order. No drama.
I would not change the locks.
Arvella thought I’d lost my mind when I told her.
“Loretta Benbo, you change those locks tomorrow morning.”
“No,” I said. “Wy gave Karina that key when she was sixteen, with words burned into the wood. I’m not taking it back from my daughter because of what her husband might do. That key is hers. Only she can give it away.”
“And if he takes it?”
“Locks keep out strangers, Arvella. They don’t keep out family with a story. If I change them, they’ll wait for a weekend, call a locksmith, and tell him a sad tale about a lost key and a cruel mother-in-law. I’ve read that exact file at least a dozen times.”
Arvella grumbled something I won’t repeat.
I wanted whatever they were planning to happen in daylight. In front of people with no stake in it. Not in whispers. Not in a Facebook post.
So I did the rest by the book.
Into the folder went last year’s property tax receipt from the Halcott County Tax Collector. The printed email. Colby’s thumbs-up. The certified mail receipts and the green return cards. Gail Fontenot’s letter. A printout of the envelope photo. And, at the very front, a copy of the recorded deed that showed Wy and me as owners since 1991, and the paperwork from after his death showing the house had passed to me alone.
I called Elmore again.
“If you see anyone, don’t go over there. Just call me.”
“You sure about that?” he said.
“I’m sure.”
On Monday, September 28, I made one more phone call.
I didn’t tell Karina. I didn’t tell Elmore. I didn’t even tell Arvella, which, if you knew Arvella, would tell you how serious it was.
The next evening, Colby called me.
He was sweet. Colby is never sweet for free.
It was Tuesday, September 29, at 8:26 at night. I was eating tomato soup in front of the news.
“Loretta, hey. It’s Colby.”
His voice was warm, almost shy. It was the voice he used on customers who came into the showroom just to look.
“Listen,” he said. “I know things have been tense. I want to bury the hatchet before Sunday. For Wy.”
“That’s a good thought,” I said. And I meant it, as far as it went.
“Mom and I would like to come pay our respects at the paddle-out. If that’s okay with you.”
“Everyone who loved him is welcome.”
“Great. That’s great.”
A small pause. The kind a salesman leaves on purpose.
“Hey, what time are you heading down?”
“Saturday.”
“I could come help set up chairs.”
I could have lied. I could have said Sunday morning, or that I wasn’t going down at all.
But I don’t lie. Not to bad men and not to good ones. That isn’t a strategy. It’s how my mother raised me. And frankly, the truth is easier to remember.
“Saturday morning,” I said. “I’ll be there before ten.”
“Perfect,” Colby said. “That’s perfect.”
He said goodbye twice and hung up.
I sat there with my soup going cold, thinking about that word.
Perfect.
I wondered who exactly it was perfect for.
I didn’t have to wonder long.
Laura Bennett writes about complicated family dynamics, difficult conversations, and the quiet moments that change everything. Her stories focus on real-life tensions — inheritance disputes, strained marriages, loyalty tests — and the strength people find when they finally speak up. She believes the smallest decisions often carry the biggest consequences.