Judge Simmons wrote something on his notepad without looking up.

“Is the plaintiff prepared to testify about these obligations?”

“He is, Your Honor,” the attorney said.

My father got up from his chair, walked to the witness stand, and swore the oath to tell the truth.

He straightened up, rested both hands on the wooden rail, and looked straight at the judge.

“I paid every single dollar of county property taxes on Cedar Lane for ten straight years, Your Honor,” my father said, his hearty boom filling the quiet room.

“My daughter left us with the whole burden, and I personally covered every bill out of my own pocket.”