My aunt wanted to adopt my little sister after our parents died.
She told everyone it was because she wanted to give Vicky a stable home.
But I eventually discovered there was another reason.
And once I found the one detail she had overlooked, everything changed.
My name is Michael.
I’m 19 years old.
Three months ago, my parents died in a massive house fire.
It was the kind of night that divides your life into a before and an after.
One moment, I was their son and Vicky’s older brother.
The next, I was standing outside a burning house, watching the life we knew disappear.
My little sister was only seven.
She survived because I went back inside for her.
I still remember carrying her out.
She was crying, coughing, and holding onto me so tightly that I could barely breathe.
After that night, there was no time to grieve properly.
There was Vicky.
And there was me.
I became her sole guardian.
I had been accepted into my dream college, but I put those plans on hold.
Instead, I took two jobs.
One during the day.
Another in the evenings.
I learned how to make meals a seven-year-old would actually eat.
I learned which teachers she liked, which foods she refused, what time she needed to go to bed, and how to sit beside her when nightmares woke her in the middle of the night.
It wasn’t easy.
Some days, I was exhausted before breakfast.
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