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 was six and still thought Mom was just on a long trip. I knelt beside their grave and whispered, “No one’s taking you from me.” That promise became everything.

But Aunt Diane and Uncle Gary had other plans. They’d forgotten Max’s birthdays and skipped holidays, but now claimed he needed “stability.” Diane touched my arm like we were close and said, “You’re still a kid. Max needs a real home.” The next day, they filed for custody.

I dropped out of college, picked up two jobs, and moved us into a tiny studio. I filed for guardianship and held on, even when Diane accused me of abuse. But she didn’t count on Ms. Harper—our neighbor and retired teacher—whose courtroom testimony saved us. Then I overheard Diane say, “Once we get custody, the trust fund is ours.”