The day after I buried my parents, I became an adult—not because I turned eighteen, but because someone tried to take my little brother, Max.
They said I was too young, too broke, still in school. But Max was all I had left.
I dropped out, picked up two jobs, and moved us into a tiny studio apartment. We had little, but we had each other. I filed for guardianship.
Then came the lies. Our Aunt Diane said I hit Max. That I screamed at him. But Ms. Harper, our neighbor, testified for us. The judge gave Diane only supervised visits.
One day, Max told me, “She says if I don’t call her Mommy, I don’t get dessert.”
Then I heard her through the window: “Once we get custody, we get the trust fund.”
I recorded everything.
In court, the judge saw the truth. I won full guardianship.
It’s been two years. Max calls me his hero. We’re not perfect. But we’re safe.
And I keep the promise I made by our parents’ grave:
I’ll never let anyone take him away.
