I Took In Twin Girls with Disabilities After Finding Them Abandoned on the Street. Twelve Years Later, a Phone Call Left Me Stunned by What They Did

Twelve years ago, while working my 5 a.m. sanitation route, I found twin babies abandoned in a stroller on an icy sidewalk. That moment changed my life forever. I thought the most unbelievable part of our story was how we came together. I was wrong. A phone call this year proved that in ways I never expected.

I’m 41 now, but my entire world shifted twelve years ago on an ordinary Tuesday morning before sunrise.

I work in sanitation. I drive one of those massive garbage trucks most people try not to think about.

At home, my husband Steven was recovering from surgery. That morning, I’d changed his bandages, made sure he ate, and kissed his forehead before leaving.

“Text me if you need anything,” I told him.

He tried to smile. “Go rescue the city from banana peels, Abbie.”

Life back then was exhausting but simple. Just me, Steven, our small house, and the bills we worked hard to stay ahead of.

We wanted kids, but life hadn’t given us any yet. There was always that quiet ache.

That morning, I turned onto one of my regular streets, humming along to the radio.

That’s when I saw the stroller.

It sat alone on the sidewalk. Not near a driveway. Not beside a car. Just sitting there, abandoned.

My stomach dropped instantly.

I pulled the truck closer, my heart pounding harder with every step.

I threw the truck into park and flipped on my hazard lights.

Inside the stroller were two tiny babies. Twin girls. Around six months old, maybe. Wrapped in mismatched blankets, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.

They were breathing. I could see little clouds puffing from their mouths.

I looked up and down the street.

“Where’s your mom?” I whispered.

No shouting. No doors opening. No footsteps running toward us.

“Hey, sweet girls,” I murmured. “Where’s your mom?”

One of them opened her eyes and stared straight at me.

I checked the diaper bag. Half a can of formula. A couple of diapers. No note. No ID. Nothing.

My hands began to shake.

I called 911.

“I’m on my trash route,” I told the dispatcher, my voice trembling. “There’s a stroller with two babies. They’re alone, and it’s freezing.”

Her tone changed immediately.

“Stay with them,” she said. “Police and CPS are on the way. Are they breathing?”

“Yes,” I said. “But they’re so little. I don’t know how long they’ve been here.”

She told me to move them out of the wind. I rolled the stroller closer to a brick wall and then started knocking on nearby doors.

Lights were on. Curtains moved. No one answered.

So I sat down on the curb beside the stroller.

I pulled my knees up and just talked to them.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here. I won’t leave.”

They stared up at me with huge, dark eyes, like they were memorizing my face.

Police arrived. Then a CPS worker in a beige coat carrying a clipboard.

She examined the babies and took my statement while I felt completely numb.

When she lifted one baby onto each hip and walked toward her car, my chest physically ached.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“To a temporary foster home,” she said gently. “We’ll search for family. I promise they’ll be safe tonight.”

The car door closed. They drove away.

The stroller sat empty on the sidewalk.

I stood there, breath fogging the air, feeling something inside me split open.

All day, I couldn’t stop seeing their faces.

That night, I pushed my food around my plate until Steven finally put his fork down.

“Okay,” he said. “What happened? You’ve been distant all evening.”

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 separated?”

He went quiet.

Then he said, “Abbie… we’ve always talked about kids.”

I laughed softly. “And then we talk about money and reality.”

“True,” he said. “But what if we tried to foster them? Just ask.”

I stared at him. “They’re twins. Babies. We’re barely keeping up as it is.”

“You already love them,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I can see it. Let’s at least try.”

That night, we cried, planned, panicked, and hoped all at once.

The next day, I called CPS.

There were home inspections. Interviews. Questions about our marriage, our finances, our childhoods, even our refrigerator.

A week later, the same social worker sat on our worn-out couch.

“There’s something you need to know about the twins,” she said.

My stomach tightened. Steven squeezed my hand.

“They’re deaf,” she explained softly. “Profoundly. They’ll need early intervention, sign language, specialized support. Many families decline when they hear that.”

“I don’t care,” I said immediately.

Steven didn’t hesitate.

“I don’t care if they’re deaf,” I told her. “I care that someone left them on a sidewalk. We’ll learn whatever we need.”

“We still want them,” Steven added. “If you’ll allow it.”

Her shoulders relaxed.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Let’s move forward.”

They brought the girls a week later.

Two car seats. Two diaper bags. Two sets of curious eyes.

“We’re naming them Hannah and Diana,” I said, my hands shaking as I signed the names as best I could.

“Get ready for no sleep,” the worker said with a tired smile.

Those early months were pure chaos.

Two babies with no hearing and no shared language yet.

They slept through sounds that would wake any other child.

But they reacted to light. To touch. To facial expressions.

Steven and I enrolled in ASL classes at the community center.

I practiced signs in the bathroom mirror before work.

We watched videos late into the night, rewinding the same movements again and again.

Milk. More. Sleep. Mom. Dad.

Sometimes I messed up so badly Steven would sign, “You just asked the baby for a potato.”

Money was tight.

Hannah watched everything closely, always studying faces. Diana was constant motion, grabbing and kicking and laughing.

I took extra shifts. Steven worked part-time from home.

We sold things. Bought secondhand clothes.

We were exhausted.

And I had never been happier.

We celebrated their first birthday with cupcakes and too many photos.

The first time they signed “Mom” and “Dad,” I nearly collapsed.

Hannah tapped her chin and pointed at me, beaming. Diana copied her, messy but proud.

“They know,” Steven signed through tears. “They know we’re theirs.”

People stared when we signed in public.

Once, a woman asked, “What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing,” I said. “They’re deaf, not broken.”

Later, when the girls were older, I signed that story to them. They laughed so hard they nearly fell off the couch.

Years flew by.

We fought for interpreters. For services. For respect.

Hannah fell in love with drawing, sketching clothes and patterns.

Diana loved building, taking apart electronics, creating things from scraps.

By twelve, they were unstoppable.

One day they came home waving papers.

“There’s a contest at school,” Hannah signed. “Design clothing for kids with disabilities.”

“We won’t win,” Diana added. “But we’re a team. Her art. My brain.”

They showed us designs. Hoodies with space for hearing devices. Pants with easy zippers. Tags that wouldn’t itch. Bright, fun clothes that didn’t label kids as different.

They turned it in.

Life continued.

Then one afternoon, while I was cooking, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

Something told me to answer.

“Hello, Mrs. Lester?” a woman asked warmly. “This is Bethany from BrightSteps.”

She explained they were a children’s clothing company partnered with the school.

“Hannah and Diana submitted a project,” she said.

My heart skipped.

“They were outstanding,” she continued. “We want to turn their designs into a real line. Adaptive clothing based on their ideas.”

My mouth went dry.

“It would be a paid collaboration,” she said. “With projected royalties. Around $530,000.”

I almost dropped the phone.

“Did you say five hundred thirty thousand?”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“My girls did that?” I whispered.

“Yes,” she said. “You’ve raised remarkable young women.”

After we hung up, I just sat there.

Steven walked in. “Abbie? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“More like an angel,” I laughed through tears.

The girls burst in moments later, hungry as always.

I sat them down and explained everything.

When I signed the number, they froze.

Then both signed at once: “WHAT?!”

“We just wanted clothes that didn’t hurt,” Diana signed, eyes shining.

“And that’s everything,” I signed back. “You helped other kids.”

They hugged me so hard I nearly tipped over.

“I found you in a stroller on a frozen sidewalk,” I signed. “I promised I’d never leave you. I meant it.”

That night, we talked about college, saving, giving back.

Later, alone in the dark, I looked at their baby photos.

Two abandoned infants.

Two brilliant teens.

People say I saved them.

They have no idea.

They saved me right back.