That night, the three of us made a promise we never let go of.
Foster care wasn’t easy. We moved a lot, but we always stayed together. Ezra never let us forget the dream. Liora kept a notebook full of recipes and ideas for our future café. I listened, remembered, and imagined what it could be.
When Ezra turned 18, he aged out of the system and immediately got a job at a pizza place, then started delivering groceries at night. He sent whatever money he could to help us until we could join him.
I still remember the first apartment he rented—it was barely bigger than a closet. But when we walked in, he smiled and said, “It’s home now.”
Every Sunday night, we had “dream night.” We’d sit on the floor, eat cheap takeout, and sketch ideas for the café. Ezra wanted shelves of books. Liora wanted to display local art. I wanted pancakes all day.
Life threw us challenges. Liora’s tuition. My health scare. Ezra losing his job. But the dream stayed alive.
Then one day, Ezra found a rundown old storefront, not far from where our parents’ café once stood. The place was falling apart—but Ezra just smiled and said, “This is it.”
It took three years to rebuild it. We painted the walls ourselves. Learned how to lay tiles from YouTube. Liora perfected her baking skills. I handled design and social media. Ezra? He carried us forward—physically and emotionally.
We called the café Second Sunrise.
Opening day, people from the community came—some who had known our parents. One woman brought a photo of our mom behind the counter. She said, “She used to know my name and how I liked my coffee. I’ve missed that.”
We sold out of food by 3 p.m.
But what mattered most came after closing. Ezra pulled out Liora’s old recipe notebook from when we were kids. He’d kept it all this time.
We sat on the floor, just like we used to. Silent. Together.
Now, five years later, Second Sunrise is more than a café. It’s a place for the community—open mic nights, weekend baking classes for kids, and jobs for teens aging out of foster care.
Sometimes, I imagine Mom and Dad in the corner booth, smiling. Proud.
Here’s what I’ve learned:
Family isn’t just about who you’re born to. It’s about who stands with you when everything falls apart. And dreams? They don’t expire. They wait—for the right hearts and hands to carry them forward.
If you’re holding onto a dream that feels too far away, don’t give up.
Even if the road is long, you’re not failing. You’re becoming.