Twelve years ago, during my 5 a.m. trash route, I found two abandoned babies in a stroller on a frozen sidewalk—and somehow, that moment turned me into their mom. For years, I believed that was the wildest part of our story.
I was very, very wrong.
I’m 41 now, but twelve years ago, my life changed forever on a random Tuesday morning.
I work sanitation. I drive one of those big trash trucks—the loud ones that wake people up before the sun does.
That morning started like any other.
At home, my husband Steven was recovering from surgery. He was pale, sore, and grumpy in that quiet way people get when they hate needing help.
I changed his bandages, made sure he ate, and kissed his forehead before leaving.
“Text me if you need anything,” I said as I pulled on my coat.
He tried to grin. “Go save the city from banana peels, Abbie.”
Life was simple back then. Exhausting, but simple. Me. Steven. Our tiny house. Our bills.
And one empty space we didn’t talk about much.
No kids.
Just a quiet ache we’d learned to live with.
That morning was bone-cold. The kind of cold that bites your cheeks and makes your eyes water the second you step outside.
I was driving my usual route, half-awake, humming along to the radio.
That’s when I saw the stroller.
It was just sitting there—right in the middle of the sidewalk. Not near a house. Not beside a car.
Just… abandoned.
My stomach dropped.
I slowed the truck, telling myself maybe a parent was nearby. Maybe someone ran inside for a second.
But when I got closer, my heart started pounding.
I slammed the truck into park and turned on my hazard lights.
Inside the stroller were two tiny babies.
Twin girls.
Maybe six months old.
They were curled under mismatched blankets, their cheeks pink and stiff from the cold. I could see little clouds of breath puffing into the air when they exhaled.
They were alive.
I looked up and down the street.
“Where’s your mom?” I whispered, my voice shaking.
No one came running. No doors opened. No one shouted.
I leaned closer. “Hey, sweethearts. Where’s your mom?”
One of them opened her eyes and looked straight at me.
I checked the diaper bag.
Half a can of formula. A couple of diapers. No note. No ID. Nothing.
My hands started shaking so badly I had to grip the stroller.
I called 911.
“Hi,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m on my trash route. There’s a stroller with two babies. They’re alone. It’s freezing.”
The dispatcher’s tone changed instantly.
“Stay with them,” she said. “Police and CPS are on the way. Are they breathing?”
“Yes,” I said. “But they’re so small. I don’t know how long they’ve been here.”
“You’re not alone anymore,” she told me.
She asked me to move them out of the wind. I pushed the stroller against a brick wall and started knocking on nearby doors.
Lights were on. Curtains moved.
No one opened.
So I sat down on the curb beside them.
I pulled my knees to my chest and just talked.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
They stared at me with big, dark eyes, studying my face like they were memorizing it.
Police arrived. Then a CPS worker in a beige coat holding a clipboard.
She checked the babies and asked me questions. I answered automatically, still numb.
When she lifted one baby onto each hip and walked toward 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. I promise they’ll be safe tonight.”
The car door shut.
The car drove away.
The stroller sat empty on the sidewalk.
I stood there, my breath fogging the air, and felt something crack open inside me.
All day, I saw their faces.
That night, I barely touched my dinner.
Steven put his fork down. “Okay. What happened? You’ve been gone all night.”
I told him everything.
The stroller. The cold. The babies. Watching them leave.
“I can’t stop thinking about them,” I said, my voice breaking. “What if no one takes them? What if they get split up?”
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “What if we tried to foster them?”
I laughed weakly. “Steven, we can barely keep up now.”
He reached across the table and took my hand.
“You already love them,” he said softly. “I can see it. Let’s at least try.”
That night, we cried, planned, panicked, and hoped—all at once.
The next day, I called CPS.
Home visits followed. Questions about everything. Our marriage. Our money. Our pasts. Even what was in our fridge.
A week later, the social worker sat on our beat-up couch.
“There’s something you should know,” she said.
My stomach twisted. Steven squeezed my hand.
“They’re deaf,” she explained gently. “Profoundly deaf. Many families decline after hearing that.”
“I don’t care,” I said immediately.
Steven didn’t even hesitate. “We still want them.”
The worker’s shoulders relaxed. “Okay. Then let’s move forward.”
They arrived a week later.
Two car seats. Two diaper bags. Two pairs of curious eyes.
“We’re calling them Hannah and Diana,” I said, my hands shaking.
Those first months were chaos.
They slept through noises that would wake any other baby. But they reacted to light, touch, movement, faces.
Steven and I learned ASL late at night, rewinding videos again and again.
Sometimes I messed up so badly Steven signed, “You just asked the baby for a potato.”
Money was tight. We worked extra. Bought secondhand clothes.
We were exhausted.
And I had never been happier.
When they first signed “Mom” and “Dad,” I cried so hard I scared them.
Years flew by.
Hannah became the observer. Diana the builder.
At twelve, they entered a school design contest.
“We won’t win,” Hannah signed. “But it’s cool.”
Then one afternoon, my phone rang.
“Hi, this is Bethany from BrightSteps.”
My heart stopped.
“We loved your daughters’ designs,” she said. “We’d like to turn them into a real clothing line.”
She named the number.
$530,000.
I almost dropped the phone.
When I told the girls, they cried.
“I love you,” Hannah signed. “Thank you for learning our language.”
“I found you in a stroller on a cold sidewalk,” I signed back. “I promised I wouldn’t leave you.”
Later that night, I looked at their baby photos.
People say I saved them.
They have no idea.
Those girls saved me right back.