When I was 14, they took my little brother Samuel away. He was six. I promised him, “This isn’t forever.”
Through foster homes, night school, and three jobs, I kept a small apartment ready—his dinosaur sheets clean, his teddy bear waiting. During visits, he’d ask, “When can I come home?” I always said “Soon,” even when I wasn’t sure.
At the final custody hearing, the odds were against me—too young, not enough income, no extra bedroom. But I had love, and I had hope.
Then, a miracle: my landlady offered me an extra room upstairs. I painted it blue—Samuel’s favorite.
His foster mom supported me with a letter to the judge. On hearing day, I stood up and said, “I’ve raised him his whole life. I can give him a home.”
The judge nodded. “The best place for Samuel is with his brother.”
He ran into my arms, and for the first time in years, everything felt right.
As we left, I asked, “Pizza to celebrate?”
“Yeah!” he grinned.
And just like that, the world felt magical again.
