It came in the form of a polite stranger with a piece of paper.

An independent contractor named Arthur Vance drove up to the property, came to the kitchen door, and set a real estate agreement down on the table in front of my mother.

“Teresa,” he said, reasonably, a man expecting a routine errand.

“I’m here to finalize the transfer details on the three-acre parcel you and Rogelio agreed to sell me.

Near the state highway.”

My mother went very still.