When I was five, everything changed in a single night. One day I had a family and a cozy life in our small café; the next, my parents were gone—no goodbyes, just strangers at the door saying we were orphans.
My siblings and I—Emma, seven, and Liam, nine—were taken to an orphanage. I kept asking when Mom and Dad would come back, but no one ever answered. The café was sold, the house gone, and with them, every trace of our old life.
Liam stepped up. He made sure Emma and I ate before he did, comforted us, and stood up for us. One night, he said, “We’re all we have now. I’ll take care of you.” And he meant it.
Eventually, we were placed with different foster families—but we refused to drift apart. Emma left first, then me, then Liam. Social workers worked with us so we could stay nearby, and we made it work. We visited often, held onto each other fiercely.
Liam never forgot our parents’ dream—the café. At sixteen, he started working. Emma joined in at seventeen. By the time I was old enough, I pitched in too. We saved every penny, and when we aged out of the system, we moved into a tiny apartment together.
Years of hard work paid off. We finally bought back the café. It was run-down, but we poured ourselves into it, rebuilding it with the same love Mom and Dad had. Customers came, not just for food, but for the heart behind it.
Then, at thirty-four, we did something even bigger—we bought back our childhood home. We stepped inside together, tears in our eyes, the memories flooding back. Now, every weekend, we gather there for dinner.
Before every meal, Liam raises a glass and says what our parents always did:
“Only in unity can a family overcome any problems and obstacles.”
And he’s right. We made it. And we know—they’d be proud.
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