I’m 18F. When I was six, my world changed forever. It was a rainy November night, the kind where the wind rattles the windows and the streetlights flicker in the mist. My parents went out, and they never came back. A drunk driver had ended their lives instantly. One moment, my parents were laughing in the kitchen; the next, they were gone.
In the days that followed, adults whispered around me. They spoke of foster care, “long-term options,” and what might happen to a small, scared girl with no one left. But amid the hushed voices, there was one person who didn’t hesitate, didn’t debate, didn’t ask questions.
My grandfather.
He was 65, frail from years of aches and pains in his back and knees, already exhausted by life. Yet when he slammed his hand on the table and said, “She’s coming with me. End of story,” it felt like the first time I had ever truly been safe. From that day on, he became my entire world.
