The day after I buried my parents, my childhood didn’t fade—it vanished. Not because I turned seventeen, but because the world stopped asking how I felt and started demanding that I survive.
I stood at the grave holding my six-year-old brother Max’s hand. He whispered, “Mom’s just on a long trip, right?” I nodded. The truth would have shattered him. The funeral was on my birthday. Nothing mattered except the promise I made him: I won’t let anyone take you away from me.
A week later, my aunt and uncle invited us over. They praised my strength—then quietly talked about “what was best for Max.” The next morning, they filed for custody.
I dropped out of college. Took two jobs. Moved us into a tiny studio where the bed touched the kitchen table. It smelled like paint and detergent, but it was ours. Max smiled and said, “I like it.” That was enough.
Then came accusations—anonymous reports, whispers of neglect. I worked until my legs shook. Skipped meals so Max could eat. Still, they tried to paint me as the danger.
What saved us was truth—and a neighbor. Mrs. Holloway testified about homework at the table, packed lunches, bedtime stories. She said Max was safe. Loved.
During visits, Max came home quieter. One night he whispered, “They told me to call her Mommy.”
Then I overheard the truth: they wanted custody to control Max’s trust fund.
I recorded it.
At the final hearing, the judge listened—and ruled in our favor.
Today, life is simple. I work. I study at night. Max is thriving.
We don’t have much.
But we have each other.
And that’s everything.
