The day after I buried my parents was my 18th birthday — but it didn’t feel like a milestone. I wasn’t thinking about adulthood or cake. I was thinking about Max, my six-year-old brother, who still thought Mom was coming back.I promised him at the grave, “I won’t let anyone take you.”

But my aunt and uncle had other plans. They smiled with fake sympathy, telling me I was too young and Max needed a “real home.” A week later, they filed for custody.I knew something felt off. These were the same people who bailed on birthdays and holidays. So I dropped out of college, picked up two jobs, and filed for guardianship.

Then the accusations came — lies that I hit Max, that I neglected him. They almost worked… until Ms. Harper, our retired neighbor, spoke up in court, calling me a better parent than most.Custody was delayed, but Diane got visitation. That’s when Max whispered one night, “She said if I don’t call her Mommy, I won’t get dessert.”Something was deeply wrong.Then I heard it — through her kitchen window: “Once we get custody, the trust fund is ours.”

I didn’t even know there was a trust. But they did — $200,000 for Max’s future.So I recorded them. Their voices, their greed, their plan to send Max away once they got the money.In court, we played the tape. The judge’s face changed instantly. Diane and Gary lost custody, and were reported for fraud.That day, I became Max’s legal guardian.We still live in a small apartment. I work full-time, take online classes, and Max is thriving in school. He tells his friends I’m his hero.I’m not perfect. But we’re safe. We’re together.And when he says, “You never gave up on me,” I tell him the truth:I never will.”