The day after I buried my parents, I turned eighteen — not that it mattered. All that mattered was keeping my little brother, Max, safe. He was six and still thought Mom was on a trip. I knelt at the grave and whispered, “I won’t let anyone take you.”But a week later, Aunt Diane sat me down with fake cocoa and colder intentions. “You’re still a kid. Max needs a real home,” she said. The next day, she filed for custody. That’s when I knew: this wasn’t about love. Something else was going on.I dropped out of college, took two jobs, and moved us into a tiny studio. Max still smiled. “It smells like pizza… and home,” he said. I filed for guardianship, knowing I was young, broke, and all he had. Then things got worse — Diane accused me of neglect and abuse.

She didn’t count on Ms. Harper, our neighbor, who watched Max while I worked. She showed up in court, fierce and certain, and told the judge, “That boy is more of a parent than most.” Diane got only supervised visits. It wasn’t over, but it was something.One day, I picked Max up early. “She said if I don’t call her Mommy, I won’t get dessert,” he whispered. That night, I overheard Diane through her kitchen window: “Once we get custody, the trust fund is ours.” Trust fund? I didn’t even know it existed.

I recorded it all. In court, the audio played: Diane’s greed, Gary’s plan to send Max away. The judge’s face hardened. “You used a child for money,” she said. They lost custody and were reported for fraud. I was granted full guardianship.Outside, Max took my hand. “Are we going home now?” he asked. “Yeah,” I said, brushing his hair back. “We’re going home.”It’s been two years. I work, study, and raise Max in our cozy, chaotic apartment. He calls me his “big bro and hero.” I’m not perfect. But we’re safe. We’re free.Because love isn’t about blood or money. It’s about showing up — and never backing down.And when Max whispered, “You never gave up on me,” I told him the truth:I never will.”