The day after I buried our parents, everything changed. Not just because I was legally an adult—but because I had to fight to keep my little brother safe. Max was only six. He still thought Mom was on a trip. I knelt at their grave and whispered a promise: “No one is going to take you from me.”

That promise became my purpose.

But then Aunt Diane and Uncle Gary stepped in. These were relatives who missed birthdays, skipped Christmas, and barely called. Suddenly, they decided Max needed “stability.” Diane touched my arm like we were best friends and said, “You’re just a kid. Max needs a real home.”

The next day, they filed for custody.

I dropped out of college, picked up two jobs, and moved us into a cramped studio apartment. I filed for legal guardianship and braced myself. Diane went so far as to accuse me of abuse. But what she didn’t expect was Ms. Harper—our retired schoolteacher neighbor—who stood up for us in court. Her testimony turned the tide.

Then I heard something that made everything clear: Diane saying, “Once we get custody, the trust fund is ours.”

I found the paperwork. $200,000—meant for Max’s future. I recorded Diane and Gary talking about their plan and handed it to my lawyer.

At the final hearing, the judge didn’t hold back: “You used a child for financial gain.”

Case closed.

Afterward, Max grabbed my hand and looked up at me. “Can we go home now?” he asked.

I smiled and said, “Yeah, buddy. We’re going home.”