When I was five, my world flipped overnight. One evening we were a happy family running a cozy café—and the next, a knock at the door made us orphans.
I didn’t understand. My sister Emma clung to me, and my brother Liam stood in shock. At the orphanage, I kept asking when our parents would come. No one ever answered.
The café closed, our home was sold, and everything we knew disappeared. “We only have each other now,” Liam said—and he meant it.
Liam became our rock. At just nine, he gave up meals for us, saved spare change for small joys, and protected us fiercely.
One night, he whispered, “Mom and Dad dreamed of that café. We’re going to get it back.” I didn’t know how—but I believed him.
Even when we were split into foster homes, we made a promise: stay close, no matter what. Somehow, the system let that happen.
At sixteen, Liam started working. Emma followed. Every cent went into savings. I couldn’t do much, but I held on to hope.
At eighteen, we reunited in a tiny apartment with giant dreams. We lived simply, worked constantly—and saved.
Years later, we finally bought back the café. It was old and worn, but it was ours. We restored it with love—and soon, the community returned.
At thirty-four, we did the unthinkable: we bought back our childhood home. We walked in, hearts full, and reclaimed what was lost.
Today, we each have families, but we gather every weekend for dinner. Before we eat, Liam always raises his glass:
“Together, we can overcome anything.”
And we did.
Leave a Reply