When I was just 14 years old, they took my little brother Samuel away from me. He was only six. I looked him in the eyes and promised, “This isn’t forever.”

For years after that, I bounced between foster homes, night classes, and three part-time jobs. Every dollar I earned went toward a tiny apartment I was saving just for him. I kept his favorite dinosaur sheets washed and ready. His old teddy bear always sat waiting on the bed.

During our supervised visits, he’d ask, “When can I come home?” And I’d always smile and say, “Soon,” even when I had no idea if that was true.

Then came our final custody hearing.

The judge looked at me and saw everything the system didn’t like: too young, too broke, no second bedroom. Samuel sat in the back, quietly hoping. I had studied hard, worked even harder, and built a life as best I could. But to them, it still wasn’t enough.

That’s when a miracle happened.

My landlady, Mrs. Rachel, offered me the upstairs apartment—for the same rent. “Fix it up,” she said. “And don’t burn my house down.” She even smiled.

I painted the walls blue—Samuel’s favorite. It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours.

Then one day, his foster mom called. “We wrote a letter to the judge,” she said. “He belongs with you.”

At the next hearing, I stood tall and told the judge, “I may be young, but I’ve raised Samuel his whole life. I can give him love. I can give him a home.”

The judge was quiet for a moment, then finally said the words I’ll never forget:

“The best place for Samuel is with his brother.”

He ran into my arms—and for the first time in years, it felt like I could breathe again.

As we walked out of the courthouse, I asked, “Pizza to celebrate?”

“Yeah!” he shouted with a big grin.

And just like that, the world felt magical again.