When I was 14, they took my little brother Samuel away. He was six. I promised him, “This isn’t forever.”

Over the next few years, I juggled foster homes, night school, three jobs—and every dollar I made went toward keeping a tiny apartment ready for him. His favorite dinosaur sheets were always clean. His old teddy bear waited on the bed.

During our supervised visits, he’d ask, “When can I come home?” I always said “Soon,” even when I didn’t believe it.

At our final custody hearing, the judge looked doubtful. Too young. Not enough income. No separate bedroom. Samuel sat quietly in the back, eyes full of hope.

I’d done everything I could—worked double shifts, studied for my GED, fought like hell. Still, the system said I wasn’t enough.

Then came a miracle.

My landlady, Mrs. Rachel, offered me the upstairs room—for the same rent. “Fix it up. Don’t burn my house down,” she said with a smile.

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

Later, Samuel’s foster mom called. “We wrote a letter to the judge. He belongs with you.”

On hearing day, I stood tall and said, “I may be young, but I’ve raised Samuel his whole life. I can give him love. I can give him home.”

The judge paused, then said the words I’ll never forget:

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

He ran into my arms, and I finally felt whole again.

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

“Yeah!” he grinned.

And for the first time in years, it felt like magic was real again.