The Day After I Buried My Parents, My Aunt Tried to Take My Brother
The day after I buried my parents, I became an adult—not because I turned 18, but because someone tried to take the only family I had left.
I was eighteen, grieving, and raising my six-year-old brother, Max, who still thought Mom was “on a trip.” The funeral was also my birthday. People told me “Happy 18th” like it mattered. It didn’t.
A week later, Aunt Diane and Uncle Gary invited us over and sat me down with rehearsed pity. “You’re still a kid,” she said. “Max needs a real home.” The next morning, they filed for custody.
I withdrew from college, took two jobs, and moved Max and me into a tiny studio. It smelled like old takeout, but Max wrapped up in a blanket and said, “It smells like pizza… and home.” I fought for guardianship anyway.
Then Child Services showed up. Diane claimed I left Max alone and hit him. I was stunned—until our neighbor, Ms. Harper, a retired teacher, marched into court and defended me like I was her own.
The judge delayed custody and ordered supervised visits with Diane. One night Max came back crying. “She said if I don’t call her Mommy, I won’t get dessert.”
I knew then it wasn’t love.
It was money.
I overheard Diane on speakerphone: “Once we get custody, the state releases the trust fund.” A $200,000 fund my parents set up for Max. The next night, I recorded them laughing about cars and vacations.
At the final hearing, my lawyer played the audio. The judge’s face turned to stone. Diane lost everything—custody, credibility, and her “concern.” I was granted full legal guardianship.
Outside the courthouse, Max squeezed my hand. “Are we going home now?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. “We’re going home.”
Two years later, we’re still in a small place, still figuring it out—but we’re safe. And when Max says, “You never gave up on me,” I answer the truth:
“I never will.”
