The day after I buried my parents, I became an adult—not by age, but by choice. Someone tried to take the only family I had left, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.
Our house felt hollow, filled with flowers, unwashed dishes, and silence. My ten-year-old brother hadn’t cried—he had no tears left. Then our aunt arrived, polite and well-dressed, speaking of his “future,” implying I was too young to care for him. I saw through her concern: she wanted our parents’ estate, not him.
Weeks of paperwork, jobs, and sleepless nights followed. Court was suffocating. She painted me as inexperienced, but I spoke for the one who mattered most. “He is my family,” I said. “I will care for him every day for the rest of my life if I have to.”
Neighbors, teachers, and friends testified to the life we’d built together. The judge granted custody to me. My brother laughed, breathless with relief. “We won, didn’t we?”
Life wasn’t easy. Money was tight, grief lingered, and walls needed painting. But we built routines, traditions, and slowly filled the empty spaces. Months later, he handed me a drawing of us in front of our home, with five words above: This is where we belong. I held him close. He was right. Nothing would ever take that from us.
