I laughed once.
“That’s rich.”
“You want Willowbrook to fear you.”
“I want Willowbrook off my land.”
“You could be part of something here.”
“I already am.”
“What?”
“A farm.”
She shook her head.
“Those signs along your fence are another issue.”
“My no trespassing signs?”
“They’re hostile.”
“Good.”
“They affect neighborhood aesthetics.”
“My fence is outside your HOA.”
“We’re reviewing whether visual impact provisions extend to adjacent parcels.”
“No, you’re not.”
She smiled.
“You don’t know what we’re reviewing.”
I stepped back.
“Saturday. Nobody comes onto my land.”
“You should put that in writing.”
“I already have signs.”
“Signs aren’t notices.”
I looked at her for several seconds.
Then pulled out my phone.
“Fine.”
I started recording.
“Karen Linton, president of Willowbrook HOA, this is formal notice that Willowbrook HOA, its board, residents, guests, vendors, contractors, and event participants do not have permission to enter my farm for your picnic or any related event.”
Her face stiffened.
I continued.
“Any entry will be documented as trespass.”
She stared at the phone.
“That’s harassment.”
“No.”
I stopped recording.
“That’s writing with sound.”
I left.
By Tuesday, new promotional graphics appeared.
WILLOWBROOK SUMMER PICNIC.
SATURDAY.
SAME BEAUTIFUL MEADOW.
Karen was not backing down.
She was doubling down.
Nate sent me a screenshot from a board discussion.
One resident asked:
Did Cole approve this one?
Karen replied:
Property access issues have been handled.
Handled.
That word made my hands shake.
Not because I was afraid.
Because of the certainty.
Sarah used to tell me something whenever anger started making decisions for me.
“You can’t fight crazy with anger, Cole. You’ll lose twice.”
I heard her voice that night.
So I slowed down.
I called my lawyer.
Edna Morris.
Small town attorney.
