“I don’t care if they’re deaf,” I said firmly. “I care that someone left them on a sidewalk. We’ll learn whatever we need.”
Steven nodded. “We still want them.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Okay. Then let’s move forward.”
For illustrative purposes only
A week later, they arrived—two car seats, two diaper bags, two sets of wide, curious eyes. “We’re calling them Hannah and Diana,” I told the worker, signing their names clumsily.
Those first months were chaos. They didn’t respond to loud noises, but they reacted to lights, movement, touch, and facial expressions. Steven and I took ASL classes at the community center, practiced in the bathroom mirror, watched videos at 1 a.m.
“Milk. More. Sleep. Mom. Dad.”
Sometimes I messed up, and Steven would tease, “You just asked the baby for a potato.”
Money was tight. I picked up extra shifts, Steven worked part-time from home. We sold things, bought secondhand baby clothes. Exhausted—but happier than ever.
On their first birthday, we celebrated with cupcakes and too many photos. When they signed “Mom” and “Dad” for the first time, I nearly fainted.
“They know,” Steven signed, eyes wet. “They know we’re theirs.”
Years flew by. We fought for interpreters at school, for services, for people to take them seriously. Hannah fell in love with drawing, designing clothes. Diana loved building—Legos, cardboard, broken electronics.
At 12, they came home excited. “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.”
Their designs were brilliant—hoodies with room for hearing devices, pants with side zippers, tags that didn’t itch. Bright, fun, adaptive clothing.
“We won’t win,” Hannah shrugged. “But it’s cool.”
“No matter what happens, I’m proud of you,” I signed.
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