When I was five years old, my life changed forever.
A car accident took both of my parents. My brother was nine, my sister seven. In a matter of days, we went from a warm, noisy home filled with love to a foster system filled with uncertainty. The small café our parents owned was sold off, along with our house, to cover debts. We lost everything—our family, our home, our sense of safety.
But what we didn’t lose was each other.
In the middle of that heartbreak, my brother Ezra quietly stepped up. He ate less so my sister and I could have more. My sister, Liora, tried her best to help—washing our clothes, holding our hands, writing down little recipes like Mom used to make.
One night, my brother gathered us in a tiny bedroom of our foster home and made a quiet promise:
“Mom and Dad had a dream. They wanted their café to be a place people felt safe in. I think we should still try. One day, we’ll bring it back. Not their bodies—but what they stood for.”
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