Twelve years ago, on a bitterly cold Tuesday morning, my world was small and predictable. The day began at 5 a.m., wrapped in the growl of a sanitation truck and the quiet math of survival—bills due, groceries stretched, hope carefully rationed. I was Abbie, a sanitation worker in a faded jumpsuit, and at home my husband Steven was recovering from major surgery. We didn’t have much, and we didn’t have children—just a steady routine and a house that echoed more than we admitted.
That routine shattered when my headlights caught something that didn’t belong.
A stroller sat motionless on the sidewalk, exposed to the freezing wind. No porch. No car. No adult in sight. My instincts screamed before my mind caught up. I stopped the truck and ran.
Inside the stroller were two baby girls—twins—wrapped in thin blankets that did nothing to stop the cold. Their tiny faces were red from the air, but they were breathing. That’s the detail I still cling to. They were alive.
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