The day after I buried my parents, I became an adult. Not because I turned 18—but because someone tried to take my little brother, Max.

Aunt Diane said it was “for the best.” That I was too young, broke, and still in school. But I knew the truth. Max was all I had—and I was all he had.

So I dropped out of college, took two jobs, and filed for guardianship. We lived in a shoebox apartment that smelled like pizza and cleaning spray.

“It smells like home,” Max said.

Then Diane claimed I hit him.

She didn’t count on Ms. Harper—our neighbor, retired teacher, and our guardian angel—who testified in court.

Diane got supervised visits.

One day, I overheard her: “Once we get custody, we get the trust fund.”

I didn’t even know Max had one. But I recorded everything.

In court, we played the audio. The judge looked ready to scream.

I got full guardianship.

Two years later, Max is thriving. I work, study, and he calls me his “big bro and hero.”

We’re not perfect. But we’re safe.

And when Max says, “You never gave up on me,” I whisper, “I never will.”