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.

I never thought I’d spend my eighteenth birthday at a funeral. I stood in the cemetery in my only black suit, clutching the small hand of my six-year-old brother, Max. He still thought Mommy was on a long trip. People said “Happy 18th” like it meant something. But all I wanted was for Max to stop asking when she was coming back.

Kneeling beside our parents’ grave, I whispered a promise: “I won’t let anyone take you. Ever.”

But not everyone agreed with that plan.

Aunt Diane and Uncle Gary invited us over a week later. Their house looked untouched by grief—gleaming countertops, matching coffee mugs. Max played with dinosaur stickers while they gave me that practiced look of sympathy.

“It’s for the best, Ryan,” Diane said, pressing a mug of cocoa into my hands like it made her kind. “You’re still in school. You don’t have a job. Max needs routine. A real home.”

Uncle Gary nodded like a parrot on cue.

I bit my cheek so hard I tasted blood. These were the same people who forgot Max’s birthday three years in a row, the ones who went on cruises instead of showing up for holidays. And now, suddenly, they wanted to be parents?

The next morning, I found out they’d filed for custody.

That wasn’t concern. That was strategy.

And I knew, deep down, it wasn’t love they wanted. It was something else. I just didn’t know what—yet.

I walked into the college office that same day and withdrew. The advisor asked if I was sure. I said yes before she could finish the sentence. My brother couldn’t wait for me to finish school. He needed me now.

I picked up two jobs—food delivery during the day, janitorial work at night. Max and I moved out of our family home. We couldn’t afford it anymore. We squeezed into a shoebox studio that smelled like pizza boxes and cleaning spray. Our bed touched the wall, and the futon touched the other.

“This place is tiny but warm,” Max said one night, wrapping himself in a blanket burrito-style. “It smells like home.”

Those words almost broke me. But they also gave me strength.

I filed for legal guardianship. I knew the odds. I was young, broke, barely hanging on. But I loved Max. That had to count.

Then it got worse.

“She said what?” I asked the social worker, frozen in my tracks as she handed me a report.

“She claims you leave Max alone,” she said quietly. “That you scream at him. That you’ve… hit him.”

The words echoed in my ears like a gunshot. I felt sick.

But what Diane didn’t count on was Ms. Harper—our neighbor, a retired third-grade teacher who watched Max while I worked nights. She walked into court with a spine made of steel and a folder of notes like an avenging angel in a pearl necklace.

“That boy,” she said, pointing straight at me, “is raising his brother with more love than most parents show their kids in a lifetime.”

The judge granted Diane only supervised visitation. Not a full win, but it was a breath of air after drowning.

Every Wednesday and Saturday, I took Max to Diane’s house. It made my stomach twist every time. Then, one night, I showed up early.

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