He said, “We’re getting closer.”
Marissa arched her brow in surprise. Are you close to what?
Even there was no need for him to respond. We were both aware of it.
On the day that we filled out the paperwork for the café, I am certain that I sensed our parents there beside us.
While he was standing behind the counter, Caleb ran his fingertips over the weathered wood. When Marissa grabbed my hand, she did it with such force that I could feel her pulse.
As she hushed, “This is it,” she said.
We had been saving money, making sacrifices, and working ourselves to exhaustion for a period of eight years. And now, we were standing inside the café that belonged to our parents.
It was obvious that it was not in pristine condition. It had been owned by a number of different people, each of whom had left it in a somewhat worse state of neglect. The floorboards made a creaking sound. The walls lacked any color. The kitchen was not up to date. However, we failed to care.
We fixed, painted, and washed the furniture. We put our whole self into everything, from the walls to the chairs to the serving dishes.
When we ran it, we did it with the same warmth that Mom and Dad had. All of the regulars’ names were learnt by us. We were able to recall their most preferred orders. Even when we were exhausted, we showed a grin.
People became aware of it.
Slowly, consumers started coming back. They brought their companions. A place where people stayed, where the aroma of coffee wrapped around you like a blanket, and where affection was served accompanying each meal, the café reverted back to what it had been in the past.
Then, many years later, when I was thirty-four years old, we did something that none of us had ever contemplated doing before.
It was our home that we repurchased.
The home where we were taught how to walk to walk. The home where we used to chase each other down the hallway, where once the air was filled with the sound of our mother’s laughter and our father’s loud voice. The home that had been taken away from us while we were too young to fight for rightfully claiming it.
While I was standing in front of the door, the keys in my hand began to shake.
“We should do it together,” Caleb said.
As a result, we did. The three of us each had a turn on the key when we had our hands on it.
The instant that we entered the building, it was as if we were being assaulted by a tsunami of memories. A hint of the aroma of freshly baked bread. The mental picture of Dad sitting in his chair and reading the newspaper. Marissa’s giggling noise could be heard coming from the stairs.
The tears began to well up in Marissa’s eyes. She hushed, “They ought to be here,” as she spoke.
Caleb answered, “They are,” with a weighty tone in his voice.
As of today, everyone of us has our very own houses and our very own families. In spite of this, we make it a point to get together for supper at that house—our house—every single Sunday.
Furthermore, prior to the dinner, Caleb raises his glass and recite the words that our parents used to say at the conclusion of each and every meal:
“The only way for a family to triumph over any challenges and difficulties is through unity.” Then, with a look of pride in his eyes, he stares at us. It was shown by us. The parents would be pleased with you.
I have faith in him.
mostly due to the fact that I’ve realized that love does not vanish when individuals pass away. There are times when it is concealed in pledges that are made in secret, in sacrifices that no one else sees, and in years of labor that are put in for something that is more important than everything else.
And there are times when love will bring you back home if you just hang on for a long enough period.
