At the age of five, my two older siblings and I became orphans but we promised to fulfill our parents’ dreams.

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The night we lost our parents, we didn’t just lose a family—we lost everything. But in the midst of the darkness, my siblings and I made a vow. A vow that would demand years of sacrifice, pain, and relentless determination to fulfill.

When I was just five, my world crumbled in an instant. One moment, I had a family, a home, and the comforting sounds of my parents’ laughter echoing from our little café. The next morning, it was all gone.

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The accident took them both from us—no warning, no goodbyes. Just a knock on the door and strangers telling us we were orphans.

I didn’t understand. My older sister, Emma, only seven, clung to me, her hands shaking. My brother, Liam, was only nine, standing motionless with a pale face, unreadable and distant. As they took us to the orphanage, I kept asking, “When are Mom and Dad coming back?” But no one could answer me.

Our café was gone within weeks, our house sold, every trace of our parents erased to cover debts we didn’t even know existed.

“We’re all we have now,” Liam whispered one night, his voice barely audible amid the noise of the other children in the orphanage. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

And he did.

He ate less so Emma and I could have more. He saved up the small allowances we got from kind caretakers and bought us treats, though he never ate any himself.

When bullies tried to pick on me, Liam was there. When Emma cried herself to sleep, Liam held her.

One evening, after a particularly difficult day, Liam gathered us in our shared room. His face was serious, his eyes dark with determination.

“Mom and Dad had a dream,” he said, gripping our hands tightly. “They wanted that café to be something special. We’re just kids now, but one day… we’re going to get it back.”

I didn’t know how. I didn’t know when.

But I believed him.

When Emma was the first to leave the orphanage, it felt like losing our parents all over again. I remember holding onto her tightly, my little fingers clutching her sweater, as the social worker stood at the door.

“No,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “You can’t go.”

Emma smiled through tears, but forced it. “It’s okay,” she said, cupping my face. “I’ll visit. Every week. I’ll bring you something sweet.”

I didn’t care about sweets. I just wanted her with me.

Liam stood by my side, fists clenched. He didn’t cry, not once. But I could see how his jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffened as Emma turned to leave.

That night, the empty bed where she used to sleep felt unbearable.

But Emma kept her promise. Almost every week, she returned with her new foster parents, bringing us candy, toys, and stories about her new school.

“The food’s better there,” she told us one day, handing me a stuffed bear.

Liam nodded but didn’t speak much. He didn’t trust the foster system.

A year later, it was my turn. I remember packing my belongings—old clothes and the bear Emma had given me—and glancing at Liam.

“I don’t want to go,” I whispered.

He crouched in front of me, gripping my shoulders gently. “Listen to me,” he said, his blue eyes burning with intensity. “You’re not leaving us. Remember? We promised to stick together, no matter what.”

I nodded, even though my heart ached.

My foster family was kind, and they lived close enough so I could still see Liam and Emma regularly. But it never felt right without my brother by my side.

Another year passed, and then Liam was the last to go.

It took a bit longer to find him a family, but that was because of us. We made it clear to the social workers: we’d only go to families who lived near each other. If they couldn’t promise that, then we wouldn’t go at all.

Somehow, they listened.

When Liam finally moved, we were still close enough to meet nearly every day. We had different homes, different lives, but we refused to drift apart.

One evening, while sitting on a park bench after school, Liam leaned forward, staring at the sunset.

“We’re getting it back,” he muttered.

Emma frowned. “Getting what back?”

He turned to us, eyes burning with the same determination he’d always had.

“Mom and Dad’s café.”

At sixteen, Liam got his first job. It wasn’t glamorous—stocking shelves at a grocery store, working late shifts at a gas station—but he never complained.

“It’s just the beginning,” he said one night, collapsing onto the couch in Emma’s foster home, exhaustion written across his face. “One day, we’ll have something of our own.”

At seventeen, Emma joined him, working as a waitress at a small diner, her feet aching after every shift, smelling like coffee.

“You should’ve seen this one customer,” she grumbled, tossing her apron onto a chair. “Kept snapping his fingers at me like I was his pet.”

Liam smirked. “Did you spit in his drink?”

Emma threw a napkin at him. “No, but I thought about it.”

I watched them from the sidelines, still too young to help, feeling useless. But I never forgot the promise we made.

By the time we all turned eighteen, we had aged out of the system and were officially on our own. Instead of going our separate ways, we pooled our money and rented the smallest apartment we could find—just one bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a couch that Liam insisted on sleeping on.

“We’re finally living together again,” Emma said, looking around our cramped space. “Like a real family.”

We worked tirelessly. Liam juggled two jobs, Emma picked up double shifts, and when I was old enough, I joined them. Every dollar we earned, we saved. We didn’t go out, we didn’t buy new clothes unless absolutely necessary.

One night, while counting our savings at the kitchen table, Liam leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

“We’re close,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Closer than we’ve ever been.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Close to what?”

Liam looked at both of us, his eyes burning with determination.

“To getting the café back.”

When we finally signed the papers for the café, I could feel Mom and Dad with us.

Liam ran his fingers over the worn wooden counter, his expression unreadable. Emma stood beside me, gripping my hand so tight it almost hurt.

“This is it,” she whispered.

For eight long years, we had worked tirelessly—saving every penny, sacrificing sleep, working double, triple shifts. And now, here we were, standing inside our café. No, their café—the one that had been stolen from us so many years ago.

Liam exhaled sharply and grinned at us.

“Alright, who’s ready to get to work?”

It wasn’t easy. The café had changed hands several times, and when we bought it, it was in terrible condition. The floors creaked, the walls were dull, and the kitchen was outdated. But we poured everything into it—repainting, fixing, scrubbing, making it feel like home again.

We ran it just like Mom and Dad had.

And people noticed.

Customers returned, drawn in by the warmth of our family, the love we put into every meal. We weren’t just serving food; we were serving our parents’ dream.

Then, when I was thirty-four, we did something even bolder.

We bought back the house.

The house where we grew up, where we last heard Mom’s laughter and Dad’s deep voice. The house that had been taken from us when we were children, lost and alone.

I stood outside the front door, my hands trembling as I unlocked it.

“Do it together,” Liam said softly.

So we did. Emma and I placed our hands over his, and we turned the knob as one.

The second we stepped inside, the memories flooded back like a tidal wave. The scent of fresh bread in the kitchen, the faint echoes of our childhood running through the halls.

Emma wiped her eyes. “They should be here,” she whispered.

“They are,” Liam said, his voice thick with emotion.

Now, we all have our own homes, our own families. But every weekend, without fail, we gather at that house—our house—for family dinner.

And as always, before we eat, Liam raises his glass and says the words our parents taught us long ago.

“Only in unity can a family overcome any challenge or obstacle.” He looks at us, pride shining in his eyes. “And we’ve proven it. Our parents would be proud of us.”

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