When I was just 14, life changed overnight. Our parents disappeared from our world, swallowed by struggles too heavy for their shoulders. Suddenly, the responsibility of caring for my little brother, Mikey, who was only six, landed squarely on mine.
The house was small and quiet, but filled with the chaos of childhood—Mikey’s laughter, his endless questions, and his need for a safe place to call home. I learned to cook simple meals, help with his homework, and calm his fears when the nights were too dark. School was hard to focus on, but I didn’t want to let him down.
Days blurred into weeks as I juggled between being a sister, a mother, and a student. Our small world was our fortress. We made plans, told stories, and held onto hope that everything would get better.
But the system didn’t see us as a family. One day, a knock came on the door, and strangers arrived with papers and questions. They said I was too young, too fragile to care for Mikey. They talked about “better homes” and “protection,” but all I felt was my heart breaking.
Mikey was taken away, and with him, a piece of me was lost. The bond we built was ripped apart by rules that didn’t understand our love, our fight to stay together.
I still remember the day I stood outside, watching him leave, tears blurring my vision. But even though the system separated us, nothing could erase the promise I made to him—that I would never stop fighting for my little brother.