But Dylan wasn't finished dropping bombshells.
"There's something else your grandmother left you," he said, cross-referencing measurements against historical water records he'd pulled that morning. "This survey includes riparian boundaries that extend into the lake itself. Looks like your family owns more than just the parking lot."
He pointed toward the water where a dozen boats bobbed peacefully at their moorings.
"See those dock slips everyone's been renting from the HOA? They're sitting in water that legally belongs to you."
My mind reeled as the implications crashed over me like a tsunami. Not only did I own the parking lot, I owned the lake bottom where every boat in the neighborhood was anchored.
The HOA had been collecting slip fees for three years on water that belonged to me.
Friday evening arrived heavy with the promise of warfare. The community center crackled with tension as 42 residents squeezed into folding chairs, the air thick with nervous energy and burnt coffee.
Brena commanded the front of the room like a general addressing troops before battle, armed with her petition and delusions of authority.
"Tonight we take our community back," she declared, her voice carrying the kind of righteous fury that starts crusades.
I sat in the back row, Grandmother's survey burning like dynamite in my lap, watching this woman orchestrate my destruction while literally standing on my stolen land.
Time to teach everyone a lesson about doing homework before picking fights.
The weekend after Brena's war council brought psychological warfare that would have made dictators jealous.
Saturday morning, I woke to find a Channel 7 news van parked in what I now knew was my parking lot, complete with a blonde reporter practicing her deeply concerned citizen expression in the side mirror. Brena had weaponized local media, spinning a masterpiece of fiction about a dangerous squatter situation threatening community safety.
The reporter, a fresh-faced kid named Jessica, who looked like she'd gotten her journalism degree from a Cracker Jack box, devoured every syllable of Brena's Oscar-worthy performance.
"This individual has repeatedly violated community safety standards and shown complete contempt for his neighbors' well-being," Brena declared to the camera, gesturing toward my cabin like she was identifying a biohazard.
The morning breeze carried her voice across the water, poisoning the air with manufactured outrage.
But that theatrical performance was just her opening act.
Sunday evening delivered the real psychological torture: Brena's neighborhood safety patrol. Six clipboard-wielding volunteers began documenting my every breath like I was under federal surveillance, photographing me checking mail, recording timestamps when I left for groceries.
The sharp crunch of their footsteps on my gravel driveway became the soundtrack to my personal police state.