I was six when a drunk driver took my parents. The days after were a blur of police reports, whispered arguments, and the terrifying word foster care. I thought I’d lost everything—my parents, my home, and any sense of safety.
Then Grandpa walked in.
Sixty-five, worn from a lifetime of work, he slammed his hand on the coffee table and said:
“She’s coming with me. End of story.”
Just like that, my fate changed.
Grandpa became my world. He braided my hair, learned to make school lunches, cheered loudest at every school play, and stayed up sewing buttons onto my jacket. When I told him I wanted to be a social worker to save kids like he saved me, he hugged me and said:
“You can be anything you want, kiddo. Absolutely anything.”
Life wasn’t easy. Money was tight. No vacations, no trendy phones or jeans. Every time I asked for something extra, the answer was:
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