Twelve years ago, my life shifted in a single morning. I was 41, driving my sanitation truck through the cold, streets silent. At home, my husband Steven was recovering from surgery—I’d already fed him, changed his bandages, kissed his forehead. Life felt small but steady.
Then I saw the stroller.
It sat alone on the sidewalk. Inside were twin girls, maybe six months old, bundled in blankets. Their tiny breaths puffed into the cold. No one was coming for them. My heart hammered. I called 911, stayed with them on the curb, murmuring, “I won’t leave you.”
When the CPS worker arrived and took them away, I felt helpless. That night, I told Steven, trembling, “What if no one wants them?”
He paused. “What if we foster them?”
Weeks later, we learned they were profoundly deaf. Most families would have walked away. We didn’t hesitate. A week later, Hannah and Diana arrived, filling our home with chaos, laughter, and love. We learned sign language, fought for interpreters, celebrated milestones like first signed words.
The years flew. Hannah sketched, Diana built, and together they created a bond and a world uniquely theirs.
At twelve, they entered a design contest to make adaptive clothing for kids with disabilities. Their clothes caught the attention of a company—they were offered a collaboration, a real clothing line.
When I told them, they cried and hugged me. “Thank you for taking us in,” they signed.
I held them close. “I promised I wouldn’t leave you. I meant it.”
Looking back at their baby photos, I realized—they didn’t just need saving. They’ve changed the world in ways I never imagined.