I’m forty-one now, but twelve years ago my life changed on a random Tuesday morning at five a.m., right in the middle of my trash route.
I work sanitation. I drive one of those big trucks people wave away from or pretend not to notice. Back then, my life was simple. Tiring, but simple. My husband, Steven, was home recovering from surgery. We lived in a tiny house, paid our bills carefully, and quietly wished for kids we hadn’t been able to have.
That morning was bitterly cold, the kind that burns your face and makes your eyes water. Before I left, I’d changed Steven’s bandages, handed him his meds, and kissed his forehead.
“Text me if you need anything,” I said.
He tried to grin. “Go save the city from banana peels, Abbie.”
I laughed, grabbed my thermos, and headed out.
A few hours into my route, I turned onto one of my usual streets, humming along to the radio, when I saw it.
A stroller.
Just sitting there on the sidewalk.
Not near a house. Not next to a car. Just… alone.
My stomach dropped so hard it felt like it hit the pavement.
I slammed the truck into park and threw on my hazards. As I walked closer, my heart started pounding.
Inside the stroller were two babies.
Twin girls. Maybe six months old. Bundled under mismatched blankets, cheeks pink from the cold. I could see their breath puffing into the air.
They were alive.
I looked up and down the street, my hands already shaking.
“Hey, sweethearts,” I whispered. “Where’s your mom?”
One of them opened her eyes and stared straight at me, calm and curious, like she was studying my face.
I checked the diaper bag. A half-empty can of formula. A couple of diapers. No note. No ID. Nothing.
I called 911 with a voice that didn’t sound like my own.
“I’m on my trash route,” I said. “There’s a stroller with two babies. They’re alone. It’s freezing.”
The dispatcher’s tone changed instantly. She told me to stay put, move them out of the wind, and wait for police and CPS.
I pushed the stroller closer to a brick wall, knocked on nearby doors, and got nothing but flickering curtains and silence. So I sat down on the curb beside them and talked.
“I’m here,” I whispered. “You’re not alone anymore. I won’t leave you.”
Police arrived. Then a CPS worker in a beige coat. She checked them over and asked me questions while my brain felt completely disconnected from my body.
When she lifted one baby on each hip and carried them to her car, my chest physically hurt.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“To a temporary foster home,” she said gently. “We’ll look for family. They’ll be safe tonight.”
The car drove away. The stroller sat empty.
Something inside me cracked open.
That night, I couldn’t eat. I kept seeing their faces. Steven noticed immediately.
“What happened?” he asked.
I told him everything. The cold. The stroller. Watching them leave.
“I can’t stop thinking about them,” I said, my voice shaking. “What if they get separated? What if no one wants them?”
He went quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “What if we tried to foster them?”
I stared at him. “Steven, they’re twins. Babies. We’re barely keeping up now.”
“You already love them,” he said softly, taking my hand. “I can see it. Let’s at least ask.”
The next day, I called CPS.
Home visits followed. Interviews. Background checks. Endless paperwork. A week later, the social worker sat on our worn couch and said something that made my stomach clench.
“They’re deaf,” she said gently. “Profoundly deaf. They’ll need early intervention. Many families back out when they hear that.”
I didn’t even hesitate.
“I don’t care,” I said. “We’ll learn whatever we need.”
Steven nodded. “We still want them.”
A week later, they arrived.
Two car seats. Two diaper bags. Two sets of wide, observant eyes.
We named them Hannah and Diana.
Those first months were chaos. Sleepless nights. Learning ASL at the community center. Practicing signs in the bathroom mirror before work. Rewinding videos at one a.m.
Sometimes Steven would laugh and sign, “You just asked the baby for a potato.”
Money was tight. I worked extra shifts. He picked up part-time work from home. We bought secondhand clothes and stretched every dollar.
And I had never been happier.
The first time they signed “Mom” and “Dad,” I sobbed so hard I had to sit down. Hannah was careful and observant. Diana was pure energy. They had private signs, shared jokes, silent laughter that filled the room.
People stared when we signed in public. Once, a woman asked, “What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing,” I said. “They’re deaf, not broken.”
Years flew by.
We fought schools for interpreters. Fought systems to take them seriously. Hannah fell in love with design. Diana loved building and engineering anything she could take apart.
At twelve, they came home buzzing with excitement about a school contest—designing adaptive clothing for kids with disabilities.
“We won’t win,” Hannah signed, shrugging. “But it’s cool.”
Their designs were brilliant. Hoodies that didn’t pull on hearing aids. Pants with side zippers. Tags placed where they wouldn’t itch. Clothes that were fun, not clinical.
Life went on.
Then one afternoon, while I was cooking, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Something told me to answer.
A woman introduced herself from a children’s clothing company. They’d seen the girls’ designs.
“They were outstanding,” she said. “We’d like to develop a real line with them. A paid collaboration.”
She said the projected value like it was just another number.
Five hundred and thirty thousand dollars.
I sat down so fast I nearly dropped the phone.
When Steven walked in, I told him. We cried and laughed at the same time.
When the girls got home, I sat them down and told them everything.
They stared at me, stunned.
“We just wanted clothes that don’t make life harder,” Diana signed.
“And that’s why this matters,” I signed back. “You used your experience to help others.”
They hugged me so hard I could barely breathe.
Later that night, after everyone was asleep, I sat in the dark scrolling through old photos—two tiny babies in a stroller on a frozen sidewalk.
People say I saved them.
They don’t understand.
Those girls saved me right back.
