The night our parents died, we lost more than family—we lost everything. I was five, Emma was seven, and Liam was nine. One moment we had a home and a café filled with laughter; the next, we were orphans. The debts erased the café, the house was sold, and all we had left was each other. In the orphanage, Liam whispered, “I’ll take care of you. I promise.” And he did.

Liam gave up food so Emma and I could eat, shielded us from bullies, and held Emma when she cried. When foster families separated us, we swore we’d stay close. Even when Emma left first, then me, Liam reminded us: “No matter where we are, we stick together.” We clung to that vow, meeting whenever we could, always talking about one dream—bringing back Mom and Dad’s café.

As soon as he turned sixteen, Liam worked any job he could find. Emma followed, waitressing long hours, while I watched, waiting until I was old enough to help. When we all turned eighteen, we rented a tiny apartment, pooling our meager savings. Every dollar went toward one goal. After years of sacrifice, one night Liam grinned across the kitchen table: “We’re close. To getting the café back.”

Eight years later, we signed the papers. The café was worn down, but it was ours again. We painted, scrubbed, rebuilt—and soon the community returned, drawn by the love and care we poured into it. Years after that, we bought back the house we lost as children. Unlocking that door together, memories washed over us. Emma whispered, “They should be here.” Liam’s reply was quiet but certain: “They are.”

Now, with families of our own, we gather there every weekend. Liam always raises his glass and repeats the words our parents taught us: “Only in unity can a family overcome any problems and obstacles.” And we know—we kept our promise. Mom and Dad would be proud.