Twelve years ago, on a freezing morning during my 5 a.m. sanitation route, I saw a stroller sitting alone on a quiet sidewalk. Inside were two baby girls, bundled in mismatched blankets, their tiny breaths visible in the cold air. There was no note, no adult in sight—just two infants left to face the winter alone. I called for help and stayed with them until authorities arrived, whispering promises I wasn’t sure I had the right to make. But when they were driven away, something in me had already changed. That night, I told my husband Steven I couldn’t stop thinking about them. A week later, after long conversations and careful reflection, we began the process to foster them. Eventually, we adopted them and named them Hannah and Diana.
Soon after, we learned the girls were profoundly deaf. Some families had hesitated when they heard that, but for us, it wasn’t a reason to step back—it was a reason to lean in. We enrolled in American Sign Language classes, practiced late into the night, and slowly built a shared language filled with laughter and patience. Money was tight, and sleep was rare, but our home felt fuller than ever. The first time they signed “Mom” and “Dad,” I felt something settle in my heart. They weren’t just children we had rescued. They were ours, and we were theirs.