One sentence mattered more every time I read it.
The obligations ran with the land.
Not with me.
Whoever held the deed inherited all of them.
The monitoring.
Wetland restrictions.
Reporting deadlines.
Maintenance fund.
Site access.
Tax paperwork.
Everything I had quietly absorbed for years.
My parents seemed to believe ownership meant getting the farmhouse back.
I finally understood that ownership also meant getting the work back.
I called Merritt.
“I want to give them the farm.”
He stared at me.
“You’ve spent years protecting it.”
“I know.”
“If you sign it back, you can’t undo it.”
“I know.”
For two weeks, he made the paperwork flawless.
The night before court, I spread the deed, easement, maintenance requirements, and reporting schedules across my kitchen table.
I thought about Grandma.
She used to say the land would outlive all of us and deserved to be treated accordingly.
The next morning, I signed.
Page after page.
Mom exhaled.
Dad straightened.
The judge finalized the order.
Then their attorney began gathering his papers.
Halfway through, he stopped.
He flipped backward.
Read something.
Then read it again.
His posture changed.
The judge noticed.