For eight years, we had worked tirelessly—saving every penny, sacrificing sleep, putting in double shifts, triple shifts, whatever it took. And now, we were standing inside our café. No—their café. The one that had been stolen from us all those years ago.
Liam exhaled sharply and turned to us with a grin. “Alright, who’s ready to get to work?”
It wasn’t easy. The café had changed hands a few times, and by the time we bought it, it was nearly falling apart. The floors creaked, the walls were dull, and the kitchen was outdated. But we poured every ounce of ourselves 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, by 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 crazier.
We bought back the house.
The house where we were raised, where we last heard Mom’s laughter and Dad’s deep voice. The house that had been stripped from us when we were just kids, lost and alone.
I stood outside the front door, my hands shaking 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 hit me 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 murmured.
“They are,” Liam said, his voice thick with emotion.
Today, 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 speaks the words our parents taught us long ago.
“Only in unity can a family overcome any problems and obstacles.” He looks at us, pride shining in his eyes. “And we have proven it. Our parents would be proud of us.”
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