Sharon A. Cubitt v. Nicole L. Myler Cubitt

Let’s cut right to the chase: someone is suing someone else for $269.76. Yes, that’s two hundred sixty-nine dollars and seventy-six cents — not a typo, not a rounding error, but the full, dramatic sum that has sent one person to small claims court with a notarized affidavit, a sworn statement, and what we can only assume is a deeply wounded sense of landlordly dignity. This isn’t a battle over a mansion in Beverly Hills or a disputed art collection — this is Yukon, Oklahoma, population 24,000, where the stakes are low, the grass is flat, and the drama is somehow very high for less than the cost of a decent laptop.

Now, let’s talk about our players. On one side, we have Sharon A. Cubitt — plaintiff, self-represented (because who’s hiring a lawyer for $270?), and, according to the filing, the landlord of a property located at 105 Earl Avenue. On the other side: Nicole L. Myler Cubitt — tenant, defendant, and, wait… Cubitt? As in, same last name? Are we in Days of Our Lives territory here? Sibling feud? Estranged cousins? A messy divorce with a shared property portfolio? The court documents don’t say, but the shared surname is the kind of detail that makes you lean in and whisper, “Oh, it’s personal.” Were they once close? Did they go to family BBQs together? Did one borrow the other’s lawnmower and never return it? We may never know — but the tension is palpable. This isn’t just a rent dispute. This is family drama with a side of property law.

So what happened? Well, according to Sharon’s sworn affidavit — which, by the way, is the legal version of throwing down the gauntlet while dramatically removing one’s gloves — Nicole is living at 105 Earl Avenue and hasn’t paid all her rent. The exact amount? $269.76. That’s it. Not thousands. Not even a full month’s rent, probably. Just shy of $270 in arrears. Now, we don’t know if this is the third missed payment in a pattern of delinquency or just a single late installment. We don’t know if Nicole promised to pay next week, or if she’s arguing the hot water’s been out since January. The filing doesn’t say. But what we do know is that Sharon demanded the money, Nicole didn’t pay, and now Sharon wants her out — or at least wants her to pay up. The legal term here is “Forcible Entry and Detainer,” which sounds like something out of a medieval land dispute, but in modern Oklahoma, it’s just the official way of saying, “You’re late on rent, and I want you gone.”

Now, let’s unpack that phrase for a second, because it sounds way more dramatic than it is. “Forcible Entry and Detainer” — sounds like someone kicked in a door and started throwing furniture, right? But in landlord-tenant law, it’s actually the standard legal process for eviction. It’s not about violence. It’s about paperwork. It means the landlord says, “You don’t have the right to be here anymore,” and asks the court to make you leave. In this case, Sharon is claiming Nicole is “wrongfully in possession” of the property — which doesn’t mean she broke in, but that she’s overstayed her welcome, rent-wise. And since Nicole hasn’t vacated after being asked, Sharon’s taking it to court. The alternative claim? That Nicole owes money for damages to the property. But that line in the affidavit is left blank — no dollar amount filled in. So this isn’t about broken windows or ruined carpet. This is purely about rent. $269.76 of it.

And what does Sharon want? Well, she wants her money — $269.76, to be exact — and she wants Nicole out of the house. That’s the relief sought: possession of the property and the unpaid rent. Now, is $269.76 a lot? In the grand scheme of civil lawsuits, it’s practically pocket lint. You could buy a used iPhone for that. Or a really nice vacuum cleaner. Or, if you’re in Oklahoma, maybe three months of satellite TV. But for someone living paycheck to paycheck — whether landlord or tenant — even a few hundred bucks can feel like a chasm. Maybe Sharon relies on that rent to cover her own mortgage. Maybe Nicole lost hours at work and just hasn’t caught up yet. The system doesn’t care about that — it just sees a debt and a process. But from a human perspective? This is the kind of amount that makes you wonder: couldn’t they have worked this out over a cup of coffee? A text message? A single conversation that didn’t involve a notary public?

And yet, here we are. In small claims court. Where the filing fee alone is probably a quarter of the amount in dispute. Where the judge might sigh, look at both parties, and say, “Seriously? This is why we’re here?” But that’s the thing about small claims court — it’s democracy in action. Even if you’re suing someone for less than the cost of a plane ticket to Vegas, you get your day in court. You get to tell your side. You get a deputy clerk named Holly Eaton to stamp your documents. It’s the great equalizer — where a landlord and a tenant, possibly related, possibly once on good terms, now stand on opposite sides of a legal line drawn over less than three hundred bucks.

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t the amount. It’s the escalation. This is the legal equivalent of calling the cops because your roommate didn’t clean the shower. It’s possible Nicole is a deadbeat tenant who’s been dodging rent for months. It’s also possible she’s going through a rough patch and just needs a little grace. And it’s possible Sharon is a strict landlord who believes in rules, or someone who’s being pushed to the edge by financial stress. But somewhere along the line, someone decided that the best path forward wasn’t a conversation — it was an affidavit. A sworn statement. A court filing. A docket number.

And let’s be real — if they’re related, this is going to be awkward at Thanksgiving. “Pass the gravy, also I tried to evict you last month.” You can’t unring that bell. Once you’ve filed a Forcible Entry and Detainer against your own blood, the relationship is changed forever. You can’t just laugh it off. “Oh, that time you sued me for $270? Classic!” No. That’s a scar.

So who are we rooting for? Honestly? Neither. We’re rooting for the text message that should’ve happened. The “Hey, I’m behind, can I pay next week?” The “I need the rent or I can’t make the mortgage” reply. The compromise. The human moment. Because at the end of the day, the court can order Nicole to pay or to leave, but it can’t fix whatever relationship just got burned to the ground over the price of a video game and a pizza. And that? That’s the real tragedy here. Not the money. Not the eviction. But the fact that two people — possibly family — decided that $269.76 was worth more than talking it out.

Welcome to small claims court, folks. Where the stakes are low, the paperwork is high, and the family drama is always free.