I whispered, “My girls did that? Hannah and Diana?”
“You’ve raised very talented young women,” she said. “We’d love to set up a meeting—with interpreters, of course.”
When I hung up, I sat stunned. Steven walked in. “Abbie? You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Closer to an angel,” I said, half laughing, half crying.
I explained, and his jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were,” I said. “Our girls. The ones someone left in a stroller. They did this.”
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Eventually, police arrived, followed by a CPS worker in a beige coat. She checked them over, asked for my statement, then lifted one baby on each hip and carried them to her car.
“Where are they going?” I asked, chest aching.
“To a temporary foster home,” she said. “We’ll try to find family. I promise they’ll be safe tonight.”
The car drove away, leaving the stroller empty. Something inside me cracked open.
That night, I couldn’t stop seeing their faces. At dinner, I pushed food 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 with CPS. “I can’t stop thinking about them,” I admitted. “What if no one takes them? What if they get split up?”
He went quiet, then said, “What if we tried to foster them?”
I laughed nervously. “Steven, they’re twins. Babies. We’re barely keeping up now.”
“You already love them,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I can see it. Let’s at least try.”
That night, we cried, talked, planned, and panicked. The next day, I called CPS.
We began the process—home visits, questions about our marriage, income, childhoods, trauma, even our fridge. A week later, the same social worker sat on our couch.
“There’s something you need to know about the twins,” she said gently. “They’re profoundly deaf. They’ll need early intervention, sign language, specialized support. A lot of families decline when they hear that.”
I looked at Steven. He didn’t even blink.
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