Twelve years ago, I thought my life was already written: early-morning sanitation routes, counting every dollar, and praying nothing unexpected would knock our fragile balance off track. My husband, Steven, was recovering from surgery, and we were just trying to get through each week. But one freezing winter morning, as my headlights swept across a quiet sidewalk before sunrise, I saw something that made my stomach drop—a stroller, sitting alone like it had been forgotten. When I stepped closer, my breath caught. Inside were two baby girls, bundled tight and breathing softly in the cold. I called for help immediately and stayed there until the authorities arrived, but even after they were taken to safety, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our lives had just changed forever.
That night, I told Steven everything, expecting him to say it wasn’t our problem or that we couldn’t handle it. Instead, he looked at me and said, “If your heart is pulling you toward them, we should try.” What came next was months of paperwork, interviews, home visits, and the kind of waiting that makes you question every step. Then we received news that might have scared other families away—the twins were deaf and would need extra support in school and at home. When the caseworker asked if we still wanted to move forward, we didn’t even hesitate. We weren’t looking for perfect. We were looking for ours. And soon, Hannah and Diana came home with us.
