A trucking company hoped to win contracts.
And local politicians had already posed for photographs beside architectural drawings of the proposed industrial park.
Now a twelve-year-old boy and his forty-five-dollar cream can were being blamed for delaying everything.
Some residents were sympathetic.
Others were furious.
One businessman appeared on local radio and called the discovery a sentimental distraction.
He claimed the town could not afford to let ancient grievances interfere with economic progress.
Another insisted the family had already lost any right to complain after so many decades.
The mother listened to the broadcast while preparing breakfast.
Her hands trembled.
She turned off the radio.
The boy looked up from his cereal.
"Are they talking about us?"
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Some people are."
He looked down.
"Are they mad?"
His mother considered.
"Some are worried about the factory project."
The boy swallowed.
"Did I ruin it?"
The question startled her.
She immediately set down the spoon.
"No."
He stared.
She moved closer.
"Listen to me."
The child looked up.
"You didn't create the old property records."
He shook his head.
"You didn't decide whether the original transaction was handled properly."
"No."
"And you didn't make anybody hide documents in that cream can."
The boy lowered his eyes.
His mother continued.
"You found something. Now the adults responsible for the property need to figure out what it means."
The child considered.
Then whispered.
"But what if the town hates us?"
His mother felt an ache in her chest.
She remembered the funeral.
The small farmhouse.
The empty savings account.
The years of listening to her father-in-law insist that the family had been cheated.
Then she looked toward her son.
"People can disagree with us."
She paused.
"But that doesn't mean we should pretend the evidence doesn't exist."
The boy nodded slowly.
Then looked toward the old notebook.
For a moment, he seemed thoughtful.
Finally, he asked.
"Would Grandpa be scared?"
His mother smiled sadly.
"Probably."
The child looked surprised.
She continued.
"Being brave doesn't mean you never feel afraid."
She touched his shoulder.
"It means you try to do the right thing while you're afraid."
The boy looked down.
Then nodded.
He finished breakfast.
Went to school.