The night our parents died, we lost more than them—we lost our home, our family café, and the warmth that made life feel safe. I was five. My sister Emma was seven. Our brother Liam was nine. When the news came, Liam didn’t cry—he just promised, “We’re all we have now. I’ll take care of you.” He did. He skipped meals for us, shielded us from bullies, and vowed we’d one day get the café back. Even as we were split into foster homes, we never lost that dream—or each other.

Liam worked by sixteen, Emma joined him at seventeen, and I followed as soon as I could. Every dollar went into savings. By eighteen, we aged out of the system and moved into a tiny apartment. We worked constantly. We sacrificed everything for the dream.

Eight years later, we did it. We bought back the café—run-down but still ours. We rebuilt it with our own hands and named it after our parents. Locals returned. Laughter returned. So did the feeling of home. At thirty-four, we did the unthinkable: we bought back our childhood house. Standing at the door, we turned the key together.

Now, we have families of our own, but every Sunday we gather there—cooking, laughing, remembering. Before each meal, Liam raises a glass:
“Only in unity can a family overcome any problems and obstacles.” And we know it’s true. We’ve lived it. Every single day.