I was just 14 when they took my little brother, Samuel, away. He was only six. I held his hand and promised, “This isn’t forever.”

After that, my life became a constant hustle—bouncing between foster homes, grinding through night school, working three jobs. Every dollar I earned went into a tiny apartment I was keeping ready for him. I kept his dinosaur sheets clean. His old teddy bear sat on the bed, waiting.

During our supervised visits, Samuel would ask, “When can I come home?” I always answered, “Soon,” even when I wasn’t sure I believed it.

By the time our final custody hearing rolled around, the judge didn’t seem convinced. Too young. Not enough money. No separate bedroom. Samuel sat in the back of the courtroom, quiet, hopeful.

I’d done everything I could—earned my GED, worked double shifts, and fought tooth and nail to prove I was ready. Still, it wasn’t enough. At least not yet.

Then something incredible happened.

My landlady, Mrs. Rachel, offered me the upstairs room for the same rent. “Fix it up,” she said, “just don’t burn the place down,” smiling like she already knew how much this meant.

I painted the walls blue—Samuel’s favorite color. It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours.

Then, Samuel’s foster mom called. “We wrote a letter to the judge,” she said. “He belongs with you.”

On the day of the hearing, I stood as tall as I could and told the judge, “I might be young, but I’ve raised Samuel his whole life. I can give him love. I can give him a home.”

There was a long pause. Then the judge finally said the words I’d dreamed of hearing:

“The best place for Samuel is with his brother.”

Samuel ran straight into my arms, and just like that, we were whole again.

As we walked out of the courtroom, I asked him, “How about pizza to celebrate?”

He grinned. “Yeah!”

And for the first time in years, it felt like magic was real.