I turned 18 the day after burying my parents. My little brother Max, six, didn’t understand. “When’s Mommy coming back?” he asked, over and over. I promised him, kneeling at their grave: “I won’t let anyone take you. Ever.”
A week later, Aunt Diane and Uncle Gary showed up, pretending concern. “Max needs a real home,” Diane said. They’d never cared before—but now they wanted custody. The next day, I learned they’d filed for it.
I dropped out of college, picked up two jobs, and moved Max and me into a tiny studio. Max smiled despite the cramped space. I filed for legal guardianship.
Then Diane lied. Child Services accused me of neglect and abuse. I froze. I would never hurt Max.
But our neighbor, Ms. Harper, a retired teacher who watched Max while I worked, testified in court: “This boy is raising his brother with more love than most parents give their kids in a lifetime.” The judge granted Diane supervised visitation.
One night, I overheard Diane and Gary on speakerphone. They were scheming to get Max’s $200,000 trust fund. Gary said, “Once the money hits our account, we can send Max to boarding school.” Diane laughed: “I just want a new car… maybe Hawaii.” I recorded it and sent it to my lawyer.
At the final hearing, Diane arrived smiling with cookies. My lawyer pressed play. The judge’s face darkened as their plan became clear. They lost custody and were reported for attempted fraud. That afternoon, I gained full legal guardianship of Max.
Two years later, I work full-time and take college courses online. Max is thriving in second grade. We still live in our tiny apartment, argue over movies, laugh at bedtime stories, and share our lives. We’re safe. We’re free.
When Max whispered, “You never gave up on me,” I told him the only truth that mattered: “I will. Never.”