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 — the only family I had left.
He was six. Still asking when Mommy was coming back. And on the same day we laid our parents to rest, my aunt Diane told me I was “too young” to raise him. A week later, she filed for custody.
I dropped out of college the next morning. Took two jobs. Moved Max and me into a tiny studio apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was safe. It was ours.
Then Child Services showed up with a report full of lies — that I left Max alone, yelled at him, even hit him. Diane’s doing. What she didn’t expect was our neighbor Ms. Harper, who marched into court and told the judge, “That boy is raising his brother with more love than most parents ever give.”
We got supervised visits instead of losing him… but it didn’t end there.
One night, picking Max up early, I overheard Diane on speakerphone:
“Once we get custody, the state will release the trust fund.”
A trust fund I didn’t even know existed.
I recorded everything — her plans, her laughter, her greed — and handed it to my lawyer.
In court, the judge listened to the audio, her face turning to stone. Diane and her husband were reported for fraud on the spot. I was granted full guardianship.
That day, Max held my hand and asked, “Are we going home now?”
“Yes,” I told him. “We’re going home.”
Two years later, we’re still in our tiny apartment — safe, happy, and together.
Because love isn’t measured by age.
It’s measured by the fight.
And I will never stop fighting for him.
