The day after I buried my parents, my childhood didn’t fade.

It ended.

Not because I had reached some legal age.
Not because I suddenly felt grown.

It ended because the world stopped asking how I felt—and started demanding that I survive.

I was seventeen years old, standing in borrowed black clothes, holding the small, trembling hand of my six-year-old brother, Max. He stared at the dirt-covered grave as if it were a puzzle he didn’t yet understand.

To him, our mother wasn’t gone.

“She’s just on a long trip,” he whispered that morning. “Right?”

I nodded, because the truth would have destroyed him. And every time he asked when she was coming back, it felt like losing her all over again—slowly, painfully, one question at a time.

The funeral fell on my birthday.

People mentioned it in hushed, awkward tones, as if saying the word birthday near a coffin required courage. It didn’t matter. Cake, candles, wishes—none of it mattered.

What mattered was the promise I made at the graveside, my lips so close to Max’s ear that only he could hear it.

“I won’t let anyone take you away from me.”

I didn’t know then how hard the world would try.

A week later, my aunt and uncle invited us over.

They spoke softly, made us tea, asked how we were coping. They told me how strong I was. How brave. How responsible.

Then they started talking about “what was best for Max.”

They said I was still a child myself. That school would suffer. That money would be a problem. That love wasn’t enough.

Their voices were calm.

Their intentions were not.

The next morning, I learned they had filed for custody.

That was the moment I understood this wasn’t about concern.

It was about control.

I dropped out of college that same week.