The day after I buried my parents, I became an adult. Not because I turned eighteen, but because someone tried to take the only family I had left. And I wasn’t about to let that happen.As an 18-year-old boy, I never imagined I’d be facing the hardest chapter of my life — burying both of my parents and being left with my six-year-old brother, Max, who still thought Mommy was just on a long trip.To make matters worse, the day of the funeral was my birthday.3
People said “Happy 18th” like it meant something.It didn’t.I didn’t want cake. I didn’t want gifts. I just wanted Max to stop asking, “When’s Mommy coming back?”We were still in our black clothes when I knelt at the grave and whispered a promise to him: “I won’t let anyone take you. Ever.”But I guess not everyone agreed with that plan.
