The day after we buried our parents, I wasn’t just grieving — I was suddenly responsible for my six-year-old brother, Max. Though I was barely eighteen, I promised at their grave that no one would separate us. Max still believed our mom was on a trip, and I knew I had to protect him.

Then Aunt Diane and Uncle Gary, who’d barely been in our lives, suddenly wanted custody. They said Max needed “stability,” but their actions raised red flags. I dropped out of college, worked two jobs, and filed for guardianship. Things got worse when Diane accused me of abuse — until our neighbor, a retired teacher, testified on my behalf.

Everything changed when I overheard Diane say, “Once we get custody, the trust fund is ours.” I found the paperwork — $200,000 meant for Max’s future. I recorded their conversation and gave it to my lawyer. That evidence exposed their true intent in court.

The judge saw through them and denied their custody request. “You used a child for financial gain,” he said firmly. When it was over, Max quietly asked, “Are we going home now?” I squeezed his hand and said, “Yes, we are.”