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.
