His grandmother, Evelyn Stephens, had died. His Aunt Caroline Stephens wanted the old house back and was throwing him out.
Covered in mud, utterly wretched, he knelt on the ground and begged my father to take him in. Said he'd work like a dog to repay the kindness.
My father was still hesitating when I stepped forward and took Ryan's hand.
"Daddy, let him stay."
From that day on, Ryan became part of our family.
He was sensible and never idle.
When my father was busy with work, Ryan looked after me—cooking, doing laundry, even learning to braid my hair in different styles.
I became his little shadow.
When he was in class, I'd play outside the door, glancing up whenever I wanted to see him.
When he did homework, I'd sit quietly beside him, dozing off or folding paper.
Once, when my father was away on a trip, I spiked a high fever in the middle of the night.
Still just a kid himself, Ryan carried me on his back, stumbling through the dark all the way to town to find a doctor.
I came through fine. He ended up with a deep gash on his foot that kept him off his feet for three whole months.
I was too young to understand things. The first time I got my period, I thought I was dying.