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.
Weeks later, while cooking, my phone rang. Unknown number.
“Hi, is this Mrs. Lester?” a warm voice asked. “This is Bethany from BrightSteps. We partnered with your daughters’ school on a design challenge. Hannah and Diana submitted a project.”
“Yes,” I said cautiously. “Is something wrong?”
“Quite the opposite,” she laughed. “Their designs were outstanding. We’d like to turn that project into a real collaboration. A paid line of adaptive clothing.”
My mouth went dry. “A real… line?”
“Yes,” she said. “Projected royalties around $530,000.”
I almost dropped the phone. “Did you say 530,000?”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course, it depends on sales, but that’s the estimate.”
