The notice was taped to my front gate with the kind of aggressive precision that suggested the person doing the taping believed they were delivering a holy decree rather than a threat. The paper was stiff, laminated against the elements, and centered perfectly between the iron bars like a badge of authority. Bold crimson letters screamed FINAL NOTICE—the sort of font designed to inspire panic while hiding behind the anonymity of procedure.
VACATE WITHIN SEVENTY-TWO HOURS OR FACE LEGAL REMOVAL.
Below the threat sat the jagged, self-important signature of Judith Harmon, HOA president, amateur tyrant, and self-appointed guardian of “community standards.” She treated her golf cart like a chariot, her clipboard like scripture, and the local bylaws like commandments etched in stone.
I stood there in the quiet Texas dawn, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and the death warrant for my family’s legacy in the other. The cicadas were just starting to wind down, giving way to the low murmur of cattle shifting in the east pasture.
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