When I was five years old, my world shattered in a single night. One moment, I had a home, a family, and the warmth of my parents’ laughter filling our small café. The next day, I had nothing.

The accident took them both. No goodbyes. No last words. Just a knock on the door and strangers telling us we were orphans.

I didn’t understand what was happening. My sister, Emma, who was seven, clung to me, her tiny hands trembling. My brother, Liam, only nine, stood still, his face pale and unreadable. When they took us to the orphanage, I kept asking, When are Mom and Dad coming back? No one answered me.

The café was gone within weeks. Our house? Sold. Every trace of our parents was wiped away to cover debts we never knew existed.

“We’re all we have now,” Liam whispered one night, his voice barely audible over the sounds 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 tiny allowances we got from kind caretakers and bought us sweets and fruit, even though he never ate any himself.

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

One evening, after a particularly rough day, Liam sat us down in our small, shared room. His face was set, his eyes dark with determination.

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

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

But I believed him.

The day Emma left the orphanage, it felt like losing Mom and Dad all over again. I remember clinging to her, my small fingers digging into her sweater as the social worker stood by the door.

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

Emma’s eyes were red, but she forced a smile. “It’s okay,” she said, cupping my face. “I’ll visit, I promise. Every week. I’ll bring you something sweet.”

I didn’t care about sweets. I wanted her.