I was six when a drunk driver took my parents from me. The days after the crash blurred together—whispers of arguments, police reports, and relatives debating what would happen to me. I heard the words “foster care” more than once, and each time my stomach knotted. I felt like I was losing everything all at once—my parents, my home, and the last scraps of safety I had left. Then Grandpa walked in. Sixty-five, worn from years of work and life, he still had enough strength to end the discussion with one firm statement. He slammed his hand on the coffee...
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