The day after I buried my parents, I became an adult—not because I turned eighteen, but because someone tried to take my six-year-old brother, Max, away from me. At their graveside, I promised I’d never let that happen. A week later, Aunt Diane and Uncle Gary—relatives who barely remembered our birthdays—filed for custody. They claimed I was too young, too broke, and too unprepared. That was the moment I knew something was deeply wrong.
I dropped out of college, took two jobs, and moved us into a tiny studio. Max called it “tiny but warm,” and those three words kept me going on nights I thought I’d break. But Diane didn’t stop—she accused me of neglect and abuse. Lies stacked on lies, each one aimed at tearing us apart.
What she didn’t expect was Ms. Harper, our elderly neighbor who babysat Max while I worked. She marched into court with journals full of notes, defending me like a warrior. Diane was granted only supervised visits… until I overheard the truth: she and Gary were after Max’s $200,000 trust fund. I recorded everything and sent it to my lawyer.
In court, the judge listened, stunned, as Diane bragged about “vacations, cars, and free money.” Her greed destroyed her case. I walked out with full guardianship and Max’s hand in mine.
Two years later, our life is small but steady. Movie nights, popcorn dinners, homework battles—our version of normal. Tonight, when Max whispered, “You never gave up on me,” I finally said the words I’d been carrying since the cemetery:
“I never will.”
