Twelve years ago, during my 5 a.m. trash route, I found abandoned twin babies in a stroller on a frozen sidewalk—and somehow, I became their mom. Back then, I thought the craziest part of our story was how we met. I had no idea life was saving the real shock for much later.
I’m 41 now, but twelve years ago, my life flipped upside down on a random Tuesday morning at exactly 5 a.m.
I work sanitation. I drive one of those huge trash trucks that rumble through quiet neighborhoods before the sun comes up.
That morning was bone-cold. The kind of cold that bites your cheeks, burns your lungs, and makes your eyes water no matter how many layers you wear.
At home, my husband Steven was recovering from surgery. Before leaving, I changed his bandages, helped him sit up, and fed him breakfast. I kissed his forehead and grabbed my jacket.
“Text me if you need anything,” I told him.
He tried to grin through the pain and said, “Go save the city from banana peels, Abbie.”
Life was simple back then. Tiring, but simple. Me, Steven, our tiny house, and the constant worry about bills. We wanted kids, but it just hadn’t happened. There was always this quiet ache in our lives where children should have been.
I started my route, humming along to the radio, following the same streets I’d driven a hundred times before.
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 parked car. Just… there.
My stomach dropped.
I pulled the truck closer, my heart pounding harder with every second.
I slammed the truck into park and flipped on the hazard lights.
When I stepped out and got closer, my heart nearly stopped.
Inside the stroller were two tiny babies. Twin girls. Maybe six months old. They were curled up under mismatched blankets, their cheeks pink and stiff from the freezing air.
They were breathing. I could see tiny puffs of breath rising into the cold morning.
I looked up and down the street, panic crawling up my spine.
“Where’s your mom?” I whispered.
No one answered. No doors opened. No one came running.
I leaned closer. “Hey, sweethearts. Where’s your mom?”
One of the babies opened her eyes and looked straight at me. Calm. Quiet. Watching.
I checked the diaper bag hanging from the stroller. Half a can of formula. A couple of diapers. No note. No ID. Nothing.
My hands started shaking.
I called 911.
“Hi,” I said, my voice trembling. “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 quickly. “But they’re so small. I don’t know how long they’ve been out here.”
“You’re not alone anymore,” she told me.
She asked me to move them out of the wind. I pushed the stroller gently against a brick wall and started knocking on nearby doors.
Lights were on. Curtains moved. But no one opened.
So I sat on the curb beside the stroller.
I pulled my knees up and started talking, because I didn’t know what else to do.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
They stared at me with huge dark eyes, studying my face like they were memorizing it.
Police arrived first. Then a CPS worker in a beige coat carrying a clipboard. She checked the babies and asked me questions while I answered in a fog.
When she lifted one baby onto each hip and carried them toward her car, my chest physically hurt.
“Where are they going?” I asked, my voice cracking.
The stroller sat empty on the sidewalk.
“To a temporary foster home,” she said gently. “We’ll look for family. I promise they’ll be safe tonight.”
The car door closed. The car drove away.
The stroller stayed behind, empty and silent.
I stood there, my breath fogging the air, feeling something inside me crack open.
All day long, I kept seeing their faces.
That night, I pushed my dinner around my plate until Steven set his fork down.
“Okay,” he said. “What happened? You’ve been somewhere else 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 shaking. “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 softly. “We always talk about kids, and then we talk about money and stop.”
“True,” he said. “But what if we at least ask?”
“They’re twins, Steven. Two babies.”
He reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“You already love them,” he said. “I can see it. Let’s try.”
That night we cried, panicked, planned, and barely slept.
The next day, I called CPS.
There were home visits. Interviews. Questions about our marriage, our income, our pasts, even our fridge.
A week later, the same social worker sat on our worn-out couch.
“There’s something you need to know,” she said gently.
My stomach twisted. Steven took my hand.
“They’re deaf,” she explained. “Profoundly deaf. They’ll need early intervention. Sign language. Specialized support. Many families decline.”
“I don’t care,” I said instantly.
Steven didn’t even blink.
“We’ll learn,” he said. “We still want them.”
The social worker’s shoulders relaxed.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s move forward.”
A week later, they arrived.
Two car seats. Two diaper bags. Two pairs of wide, curious eyes.
“We’re calling them Hannah and Diana,” I told her, my hands shaking as I tried to sign their names.
Those first months were chaos.
They slept through noises that would wake any other baby. But they reacted to light, movement, touch, and faces.
Steven and I took ASL classes. We watched videos at 1 a.m., rewinding over and over.
“Milk. More. Sleep. Mom. Dad.”
Sometimes I messed up so badly Steven signed, “You just asked the baby for a potato.”
Money was tight. I took extra shifts. Steven worked from home. We bought secondhand clothes.
We were exhausted.
And I had never been happier.
When they signed “Mom” and “Dad” for the first time, I nearly fainted.
“They know,” Steven signed, tears in his eyes. “They know we’re theirs.”
People stared when we signed in public.
One woman once asked, “What’s wrong with them?”
I stood tall and said, “Nothing. They’re deaf, not broken.”
Years passed fast.
Hannah loved drawing. Diana loved building. Together, they were unstoppable.
At twelve, they came home waving papers.
“We’re doing a contest at school,” Hannah signed. “Design clothes for kids with disabilities.”
“We’re a team,” Diana added. “Her art. My brain.”
They designed clothes that actually made sense.
Then one afternoon, my phone rang.
“We’re a children’s clothing company,” a woman said. “Your daughters’ designs impressed us.”
When she said the projected value—$530,000—I almost dropped the phone.
Later, when I told the girls, they stared at me in shock.
“Thank you for taking us in,” Diana signed through tears.
“I found you in a stroller on a cold sidewalk,” I signed back. “I promised I wouldn’t leave you.”
People say I saved them.
They have no idea.
Those girls saved me right back.