Sue Inloan v. Day Melissa

Let’s cut right to the chase: Sue Inloan is suing her neighbor, Day Melissa, for $3,259.16—because apparently, friendship ends where late fees begin. That’s right, folks. This isn’t about a stolen lawnmower, a barking dog, or even a disputed fence line. No, this is a full-blown legal showdown over an unsecured loan, late fees, process fees, and legal fees—because when you loan money to a neighbor, you better hope they pay on time, or you might end up in front of a judge arguing over decimal points like it’s the climax of a courtroom drama.

Sue Inloan and Day Melissa lived close enough to borrow from each other—124 Spann Ave, Ardmore, Oklahoma, to be exact—but apparently not close enough for a simple Venmo reminder to settle things. The filing doesn’t tell us how long they’ve known each other, whether they’ve shared casseroles or complained about the same HOA, but we can assume at some point, things were neighborly. Friendly, even. Maybe they waved from their porches. Maybe they commiserated about the humidity. But somewhere between small talk and shared space, Sue decided to loan Day some money. And not just a “hey, can you spot me $20 for gas?” kind of loan. We’re talking a figure that, when tallied up with fees, clocks in at $3,259.16. That’s three grand, two hundred fifty-nine bucks, and sixteen cents. Sixteen! This isn’t Monopoly money—it’s enough to buy a decent used car, a year’s worth of Netflix subscriptions, or at least a really good vacuum. And now, it’s the reason these two are on a collision course with the Carter County Courthouse.

So what happened? Well, according to the affidavit filed by Sue’s representative, Tyra N Sinloan (who, by the way, has a name that sounds like a stage magician or a minor character from The West Wing), Day borrowed the money, didn’t pay it back, and now owes not just the principal, but late fees, process fees, and legal fees too. The document doesn’t say why the loan was made. Was it for rent? Car repairs? A surprise trip to Vegas? A last-minute decision to start a llama farm? We don’t know. And more importantly, the court doesn’t know either—because this is all one-sided. There’s no counter-argument, no dramatic “she promised it was a gift!” defense… yet. All we have is Sue’s word, delivered via affidavit, that she asked for the money, Day said no, and now the whole thing is being escalated like it’s a high-stakes poker game instead of what appears to be a personal loan between neighbors.

And let’s talk about that number: $3,259.16. Is that a lot? Well, for a civil case in small claims or district court in Oklahoma, it’s not crazy high, but it’s not chump change either. In Carter County, where the average household income hovers around $50,000, three grand is roughly a week and a half of take-home pay for some people. It’s two months of rent for a modest apartment in Ardmore. It’s also more than the maximum limit for small claims court in Oklahoma, which caps at $10,000—so technically, this could be small claims, but instead, it’s in District Court, which means slightly more formality, slightly more paperwork, and slightly more drama. The fact that legal fees are included suggests this wasn’t just a quick “I’ll sue you on a form” situation. Someone—Tyra N Sinloan—got involved, possibly for a fee of their own. Which raises the question: did the legal fees add to the amount owed, turning a $2,500 loan into a $3,259.16 monster? Because if so, this might be the most expensive lesson in “don’t lend money to neighbors” in Carter County history.

Now, here’s where it gets even more interesting: the plaintiff is also demanding possession of personal property. But—plot twist—the affidavit doesn’t say what property. It literally leaves the description blank. “That the defendant is wrongfully in possession of certain personal property described as ________.” That’s it. No couch, no power tools, no vintage record collection. Just… something. Something worth an unspecified amount that Sue wants back. Did Day borrow a pressure washer and never return it? A wedding dress? A rare houseplant? The suspense is killing us. And even more bizarre—Sue waived her right to a jury trial. That means she doesn’t want a panel of her peers deciding this. She wants a judge. Maybe she’s confident. Maybe she’s embarrassed. Or maybe she knows that a jury would look at this case and say, “Wait, you’re suing over what now?” and burst out laughing.

So why are they in court? Let’s break it down like we’re explaining it to someone who just woke up from a 10-year coma. Sue says she loaned Day money. Day didn’t pay it back. Sue added fees—late fees (probably for missing a payment), process fees (maybe for sending notices or starting the legal process), and legal fees (for hiring someone like Tyra N Sinloan to file this paperwork). Now Sue wants the money, plus the mystery property, and she’s using the court to get it. The legal term is “unsecured loan”—meaning there was no collateral, like a car title or a deed, backing it up. So if Day defaults, Sue can’t automatically repossess anything. She has to sue. And that’s exactly what she did.

What does Sue want? $3,259.16. Plus her stuff. Plus court costs. And probably, just a little bit, for Day to acknowledge that she was wrong. Because let’s be real—this isn’t just about the money. It’s about pride. It’s about being right. It’s about that moment when you say, “I told you I’d take you to court,” and actually follow through. And honestly? We have to respect the commitment. Most people would let it go, write it off as “lesson learned,” and avoid eye contact at the mailbox. Not Sue. Sue filed an affidavit. She got a notary. She named names. She went full legal beast mode over a loan that probably started with a “Hey, can you help me out this month?”

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t the amount. It’s the blank space where the personal property should be. It’s like the legal equivalent of “I know you took something, and you know what it is.” It’s haunting. It’s mysterious. It’s borderline poetic. But also—come on. If you’re going to sue your neighbor, at least list what they stole. A toaster? A signed Britney Spears CD? The last slice of pie? We deserve answers.

And while we’re editorializing—what are we rooting for? Honestly, we’re rooting for a settlement. We’re rooting for Sue and Day to sit down, hash it out, and maybe even share a laugh about how ridiculous it is that they’re one court date away from a permanent neighborhood feud. Because at the end of the day, $3,259.16 is a lot of money, but peace on Spann Avenue? That’s priceless. Unless, of course, the missing property is a solid gold garden gnome. In which case—Sue, you go. Get your gnome back.