Donna Ketchum v. David L. Kosechata

Let’s get straight to the wild part: a widowed woman is suing her neighbor — who still lives in her house — for $38,524 in unpaid property taxes and insurance, all because he stopped paying the bills after living there for six years like it was his own. And no, this isn’t some shady landlord-tenant drama — it’s way weirder. They had a handshake-on-paper deal where he thought he was buying the place, but legally? The deed never changed hands. So now she wants him out, the house sold, and every last penny of those tax bills covered — with interest. Welcome to the legal version of a yard sale gone nuclear.

Meet Donna Ketchum, a partially incapacitated widow living in Cotton County, Oklahoma — which, for the record, sounds like a place where time moves slower and property disputes get personal. Donna owns a modest little plot in the Walters Heights Addition, specifically Lots 19 and 20 at 516 S. Broadway, Walters. It’s not the Taj Mahal, but in small-town Oklahoma, it’s home — or at least it should be. Except Donna hasn’t lived there in years. Instead, her neighbor, David L. Kosechata, has been cozying up in her duplex since July 17, 2017, under what was supposed to be a “Contract for Deed” — a fancy legal term that basically means: You live here, pay us monthly, and one day, if you’re good, we’ll hand over the title. Think of it like layaway for houses. Only, unlike your Walmart TV, real estate doesn’t come with a grace period when you stop paying.

David wasn’t just casually renting — this was structured. He agreed to pay $264 a month, which doesn’t sound like much until you realize that amount was supposed to cover his path to ownership and include his responsibility for property taxes and insurance. That’s the key detail he seems to have ghosted on. For years, things chugged along. Checks were cashed. Grass was mowed. Neighbors waved. But then, in December 2023 — right around the time holiday spirit usually gives way to financial regret — David stopped paying. Cold turkey. No explanation, no negotiation, just silence. And not only did he skip the monthly payments, he also failed to pay two full years of advalorem taxes (that’s just a fancy way of saying “property taxes” — thanks, Latin), and he didn’t even bother keeping insurance on the house. So now, not only is Donna on the hook for thousands in taxes she didn’t agree to pay, but if the house burns down tomorrow? She’s holding the match and the bill.

Now, let’s pause and appreciate the absurdity: David has been living in this house for nearly seven years, treating it like his own, making payments like an owner — but legally, he isn’t the owner. The title still sits firmly in Donna’s name. That means she is ultimately responsible for the taxes, she is on the hook with the county, and she could lose the property if those bills go unpaid. Meanwhile, David gets to live there rent-free, uninsured, and apparently unbothered — unless, of course, Donna drags him into court, which… surprise, she did. On March 10, 2025, her attorney, David W. Hammond (yes, two Davids, no relation, we assume), filed a petition that basically says: “Enough. You broke the deal. I want my house back — or at least the money you owe.”

The lawsuit lays out two main legal arguments, wrapped in enough legalese to make your eyes glaze over — but here’s the plain English version. First, Donna wants to foreclose on the property. Wait — foreclose on her own house? That sounds backwards, but it’s actually a common move in contract-for-deed situations. Since David defaulted on his obligations (no payments, no taxes, no insurance), Donna is asking the court to treat him like a borrower who skipped out on a loan. She wants the court to order the house sold at a sheriff’s auction, use the money to cover what he owes, and then keep whatever’s left — if there’s anything left. Second, she wants the court to officially declare that David doesn’t have any real ownership rights here — just a broken promise. Because sometimes, people who live somewhere long enough start to feel like they own it, and courts have to step in and say, “Nope, feelings don’t count. Paperwork does.”

And what does Donna want? $38,524.59. That’s not a round number — it’s the kind of amount that comes from adding up years of unpaid taxes, insurance premiums, legal fees, and compound interest. Is that a lot for a house in Walters, Oklahoma? Depends. The median home value in Cotton County is around $100,000. So $38k isn’t chump change — it’s over a third of the property’s worth. It’s like if you borrowed a friend’s car, promised to pay for gas and insurance, then ditched both for two years and left it parked with a flat tire. When they come to collect, they’re not just asking for the gas money — they want the tow bill, the new tire, and a cleaning fee for the fast-food wrappers in the backseat.

But here’s the kicker: David might think he has a case. After all, he paid for nearly seven years. $264 a month for 84 months is over $22,000 — real money, especially in rural Oklahoma. He may argue he has an “equitable interest” in the property, meaning: I acted like an owner, I treated it like my home, I deserve some recognition. And sure, emotionally, that makes sense. But legally? Contracts are contracts. If you agree to pay taxes and insurance and you don’t, you’re in breach. It’s like signing up for a gym membership that includes a locker and towel service, then refusing to pay the towel fee — you can’t sue the gym for “emotional attachment” to the towels.

So what’s our take? The most absurd part isn’t the money, or the neighbor drama, or even the fact that two adults needed lawyers to settle what feels like a backyard disagreement. It’s that this whole mess could’ve been avoided with a simple conversation — or, better yet, a proper title transfer. But instead, we’ve got a widowed woman, already dealing with partial incapacitation, forced to sue her neighbor just to protect her own property. And David? He’s sitting in a house he doesn’t own, dodging taxes like a college student dodges rent, while the county inches closer to slapping a lien on the property — which would hurt Donna, not him.

We’re rooting for Donna, not because she’s flawless, but because she’s trying to clean up a system that failed her. She trusted a neighbor. She set up a deal that sounded fair. And now she’s the one chasing tax receipts and insurance policies like a debt collector. Meanwhile, David gets to play victim while living mortgage-free in a house he hasn’t technically earned. If this case teaches us anything, it’s this: in small towns, real estate deals should come with more than good intentions. They need lawyers, titles, and a healthy dose of “what if this all goes south?” Because in Cotton County, it just did.