The day after I buried my parents, I became an adult—not because I turned eighteen, but because I realized someone might try to take away the only family I had left. And I knew I couldn’t let that happen.
My eighteenth birthday arrived wrapped in grief. Both of my parents were gone, and I was left caring for my six-year-old brother, Max, who still believed our mom was just away on a trip. That day, the words “Happy Birthday” felt hollow. I didn’t want cake or presents. I just wanted Max to stop asking when she’d be back.
At their grave, in the cold and quiet, I made a promise: “No one will take you from me.”
But soon, I found out that not everyone saw things the same way.
A week later, my Aunt Diane and Uncle Gary invited us over. We sat in their pristine kitchen while Max played quietly. Diane offered me cocoa and gently said, “You’re still so young, Ryan. Max needs a home with structure. You have school, no job—this is a lot to handle.”
Uncle Gary added, “He needs stability.”
I said little in that moment, but inside, I knew something wasn’t right. These were the same relatives who rarely showed up for birthdays or holidays. Now they wanted to take Max in?
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