Twelve years ago, during my 5 a.m. trash route, I found abandoned twin babies in a stroller on a frozen sidewalk. That moment didn’t just change my morning—it changed my entire life. I ended up becoming their mom.
For a long time, I thought the wildest part of our story was how we found each other.
I was very, very wrong.
I’m 41 now, but twelve years ago my life flipped upside down on a random Tuesday at exactly 5 a.m.
I work sanitation. I drive one of those huge trash trucks that rumble through quiet neighborhoods before most people wake up. It’s hard work, but it paid the bills.
Back then, my husband Steven was at home recovering from surgery. That morning, the cold was brutal. The kind of cold that bites your cheeks, freezes your fingers, and makes your eyes water even through the windshield.
Before I left, I changed Steven’s bandages, helped him eat, and kissed his forehead.
“Text me if you need anything,” I told him as I grabbed my coat.
He tried to grin through the pain and said, “Go save the city from banana peels, Abbie.”
Life was simple then. Exhausting, yes—but simple. Me, Steven, our tiny house, and our bills. No kids. Just a quiet ache where we wished they were.
I climbed into my truck, turned on the radio, and pulled onto my usual route, humming along and thinking about nothing special.
That’s when I saw the stroller.
It was sitting right in the middle of the sidewalk. Not near a house. Not by a parked car. Just… there.
My stomach dropped.
I slowed the truck and felt my heart start pounding as I got closer. I slammed the truck into park and flipped on my hazard lights.
Inside the stroller were two tiny babies.
Twin girls. Maybe six months old.
They were curled under mismatched blankets, their cheeks pink and stiff from the cold. I could see little clouds of breath puffing from their mouths.
They were alive.
I looked up and down the street.
“Where’s your mom?” I whispered, my voice shaking.
No one answered. No doors opened. No one came running.
“Hey, sweethearts,” I said softly. “Where’s your mom?”
One of the babies opened her eyes and looked straight at me.
I checked the diaper bag. Half a can of formula. A couple of diapers. No note. No ID. Nothing.
My hands started to shake.
I called 911.
“Hi,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’m on my trash route. There’s a stroller with two babies. They’re alone. It’s freezing.”
The dispatcher’s 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 small. I don’t know how long they’ve been here.”
“You’re not alone anymore,” she told me.
She asked me to move them out of the wind, so I pushed the stroller closer to a brick wall. Then I started knocking on doors.
Nothing.
Lights were on. Curtains moved. But no one opened.
So I sat on the curb beside the stroller, 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 you.”
They stared at me with huge dark eyes, like they were studying my face.
Police arrived first. Then a CPS worker in a beige coat holding a clipboard. She examined the babies and asked me what happened. I gave my statement, still numb.
When she lifted one baby on each hip and carried them toward her car, my chest physically hurt.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“To a temporary foster home,” she said gently. “We’ll try to find family. I promise they’ll be safe tonight.”
The car door shut. The car drove away.
The stroller sat empty on the sidewalk.
I stood there, my breath fogging the air, and felt something inside me crack open.
All day long, 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 somewhere else all night.”
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 split up?”
Steven was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, “What if we tried to foster them?”
I laughed weakly. “We talk about kids, then we talk about money and stop real fast.”
“True,” he said. “But what if we at least tried?”
I stared at him.
“They’re two babies, Steven. Twins. We’re barely keeping up.”
He reached across the table and took my hand.
“You already love them,” he said softly. “I can see it. Let’s at least try.”
That night we cried, talked, panicked, and planned all at once.
The next day, I called CPS.
The process was intense. Home visits. Questions about our marriage, our income, our childhoods, our fridge.
A week later, the same social worker sat on our worn couch.
“There’s something you need to know about the twins,” she said.
My stomach tightened.
“They’re deaf,” she explained gently. “Profoundly deaf. 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 either.
“We still want them,” he said. “If you’ll let us.”
The social worker’s shoulders relaxed.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Then let’s move forward.”
A week later, they arrived.
Two car seats. Two diaper bags. Two curious faces.
“We’re calling them Hannah and Diana,” I told the worker, my hands shaking as I tried to sign their names.
The first months were chaos.
No hearing. No shared language. No sleep.
Steven and I took ASL classes. Watched videos at 1 a.m.
“Milk. More. Sleep. Mom. Dad.”
I practiced in the bathroom mirror before work. Sometimes Steven would laugh and sign, “You just asked the baby for a potato.”
Money was tight. I took extra shifts. Steven worked part-time from home.
But I had never been so happy.
The first time they signed “Mom” and “Dad,” I nearly passed out.
“They know,” Steven signed, tears in his eyes. “They know we’re theirs.”
Years flew by.
Hannah loved drawing. Diana loved building.
At twelve, they entered a school contest.
“Design clothes for kids with disabilities,” Hannah signed.
They didn’t think they’d win.
Then one afternoon, my phone rang.
“We’re a children’s clothing company,” a woman said. “Your daughters’ designs impressed us.”
She offered a paid collaboration. Projected value: $530,000.
When I told the girls, they froze.
“WHAT?!” they signed together.
“We just wanted clothes that don’t hurt,” Diana signed.
“And that’s everything,” I signed back. “You made life easier for others.”
They hugged me hard.
“I promised I wouldn’t leave you,” I signed. “I meant it.”
Later that night, I sat alone, looking at old photos.
Two babies left in the cold.
Two teens changing the world.
People say, “You saved them.”
They have no idea.
Those girls saved me right back.