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.