Twelve years ago, on a bitterly cold morning during my 5 a.m. sanitation route, I noticed a stroller sitting alone on a quiet stretch of sidewalk. Inside were two baby girls wrapped in mismatched blankets, their tiny breaths fogging the winter air. There was no note, no sign of an adult—just two infants left to face the cold by themselves. I called for help right away and stayed with them until authorities arrived, whispering soft reassurances even though I didn’t know what would happen next. But when they were taken away, something in me had already shifted.
That night, I told my husband Steven I couldn’t stop thinking about them. A week later—after long talks and careful consideration—we began the process to foster them. In time, we adopted them and named them Hannah and Diana.
Soon after, we learned both girls were profoundly deaf. Some families had stepped back when they heard that, but for us, it wasn’t a reason to hesitate—it was a reason to step forward. We signed up for American Sign Language classes, practiced late into the night, and slowly built a way to communicate that was full of patience, humor, and love. Money was tight and sleep was scarce, but our home felt warmer and more alive than ever. The first time they signed “Mom” and “Dad,” something settled deep inside me. They weren’t children we had taken in. They were our daughters—and we were their parents.
As they grew older, their personalities began to shine. Hannah loved sketching and dreamed up clothing designs, filling page after page with colorful ideas. Diana enjoyed building things—taking apart gadgets just to understand how they worked, then putting them back together in new ways.
By middle school, they teamed up for a school competition centered on adaptive clothing. They created hoodies designed to work comfortably with hearing devices, pants with easier closures, and bright, confident styles meant to celebrate ability instead of hiding it. To them, it was simply a project. To us, it was another glimpse of their creativity and empathy.
Then one day, we got a phone call. A children’s clothing company had seen their designs and wanted to collaborate—offering a real contract, real payment, and a chance to bring their ideas into the world. I nearly dropped the phone. When I shared the news, the girls stared at me for a moment in disbelief, then burst into excited signing and laughter.
That evening, as we sat together going through emails and talking about what might come next, my mind drifted back to that freezing morning and the quiet sidewalk. People sometimes say we saved them. But the truth is something far more meaningful.
We found each other.
And in the years since, they have given me purpose, pride, and a daily reminder that love—when it’s chosen—can change everything.