I was just 14 when I suddenly became the only person looking after my 6-year-old brother, Samuel. He was everything to me, but soon the system stepped in, and we were separated into foster care.

By 16, I was working three jobs and attending night school, finally renting a tiny apartment—a first step toward bringing Samuel home. During visits, he’d whisper, “When can I come home?” and I’d promise, “Soon.”

At the custody hearing, the judge said I was too young, and the caseworker agreed it wasn’t enough. Devastated, I went home, missing the days when we were together.

Then my landlady, Mrs. Rachel, showed up with cookies and encouragement. She suggested I fix up the spare room, so I painted it blue, Samuel’s favorite, and made it ready.

With kinship care recommended, I stood in court and said, “I might be young, but I’ve cared for Samuel all his life. I can give him a safe, loving home.” Even his foster parents agreed.

Finally, the judge said the words I’d been hoping for: “The best place for Samuel is with his brother.” Samuel ran into my arms, and that day we celebrated with pizza—a fresh start together.