The day after I buried my parents — on my 18th birthday — I became an adult. Not by age, but by the responsibility of raising my six-year-old brother, Max, who still believed our mom was just away.Things worsened when my Aunt Diane and Uncle Gary, who had barely been in our lives, filed for custody. They claimed I wasn’t capable — too young, jobless, still in school. But I knew their interest wasn’t love; it was strategy. So I dropped out of college, got two jobs, and fought for Max.

We moved into a tiny apartment, barely scraping by. But Max smiled. That was enough.Then Diane accused me of abuse. I was crushed — until our neighbor, Ms. Harper, stood up in court and defended me fiercely. Thanks to her, the judge delayed custody and allowed only supervised visits.But things turned darker. Max told me Diane was forcing him to call her “Mommy.” Later, I overheard her talking about a trust fund left by our parents — $200,000. That was her real motive.I recorded her and Gary admitting their plans to take the money and dump Max in boarding school. We played the audio in court.Diane’s fake concern shattered. The judge granted me full guardianship and condemned their manipulation.Two years later, Max and I are still in our little apartment. I work and study online. He calls me his hero. We don’t have much, but we have each other.Because love isn’t about age or money — it’s about never giving up. And I never will.