I’m Brandon. Two years ago, when I was 28, my world shattered—my parents died in a car crash, and suddenly I was responsible for my 14-year-old brother, Liam. Those early months were hell: he’d wake screaming, asking why. I’d sit on his bed at 3 a.m. whispering, “We’ll get through this. I’ll take care of you,” even though I was barely holding it together.
I became his guardian overnight—school, meals, clothes, permission slips. He asked tough questions I had no answer for, so I held him and told him it was okay to be sad. We moved towns, he lost friends, but he matured fast. Two years on, Liam—now 16—is thriving: good grades, a healthy social life, and working multiple jobs to support himself and save for college. It hurts that he carries so much responsibility, but we’ve grown into a strong, unbreakable team.
Then came Melissa. We met over coffee a year ago—she seemed kind, supportive of my situation. But when I asked her to move in, she agreed on one condition: she’d pay nothing, claiming couples shouldn’t mix money. I accepted, trusting her.
On moving day, I went out to buy dinner. I returned to find Liam’s belongings—clothes, books, laptop—dumped outside. Melissa told him he needed space and maturity, calling him a freeloader, insisting “couples need their space.”
Seeing Liam’s face crushed, rage snapped inside me. He’s my family. I told Melissa: “Pack tonight.” She protested. I said, “Watch me.” She left, boxes in tow. I helped Liam bring everything back in. We cuddled on the couch amid the chaos, bonded stronger than ever.