I'm Ryan. I turned 18 the day after we buried our parents.

 

I'm Ryan. I turned 18 the day after we buried our parents.




My little brother, Max, was 6. He didn't understand. Just kept asking, "When's Mommy coming back?"

‎I promised I'd never let anyone take him.

‎A week later, Aunt Diane and Uncle Gary showed up. "You're still a kid," she said, all fake concern. "Max needs stability. A real home."

‎They never cared before. Now they wanted custody?

‎I dropped out of college, worked two jobs, and applied for guardianship. Then Diane told Child Services I yelled at Max. That I left him alone.

‎One night, after picking him up, Max whispered, "She said if I don't call her Mommy, I won't get dessert."

‎Later, I overheard Diane on the phone: "Once we get custody, the state will release the trust fund."

‎Gary laughed. "We can send Max to boarding school. He's a handful."

‎Diane laughed. "All I want is a new car, and maybe that trip to Hawaii."

‎At the final custody hearing, Diane wore a pearl necklace and brought homemade cookies for the judge, thinking she had won.

‎BUT I HAD AN ACE UP MY SLEEVE. ⬇️

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