He went quiet.
“What if we tried to foster them?”
“Abbie,” he said finally, “we’ve always talked about kids.”
I laughed a little. “Yeah. Then we talk about money and stop real fast.”
“True,” he said. “But… what if we tried to foster them? At least ask.”
I stared at him. “They’re two babies, Steven. Twins. We’re barely keeping up now.”
“You already love them.”
He reached across the table and took my hand.
“You already love them,” he said. “I can see it. Let’s at least try.”
That night, we cried and talked and planned and panicked in equal parts.
The next day, I called CPS.
We started the process. Home visits. Questions about our marriage. Our income. Our childhoods. Our trauma. Our fridge.
A week later, the same social worker sat on our beat-up couch.
“They’ll need early intervention.”
“There’s something you need to know about the twins,” she said.
My stomach clenched. Steven reached for my hand.
“What is it?” I asked.
“They’re deaf,” she said gently. “Profoundly deaf. They’ll need early intervention. Sign language. Specialized support. A lot of families decline when they hear that.”
“I don’t care.”
I looked at Steven.
He didn’t even blink.
I turned back to her.
“I don’t care if they’re deaf,” I said. “I care that someone left them on a sidewalk. We’ll learn whatever we need.”
Steven nodded. “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.”
Those first months were chaos.
They brought them a week later.
Two car seats. Two diaper bags. Two sets of wide, curious eyes.
“We’re calling them Hannah and Diana,” I told the worker, my hands shaking as I signed the names the best I could.
“Get used to no sleep,” she said with a tired smile. “And lots of paperwork.”
Those first months were chaos.
They slept through things that would wake any other kid.
Two babies. No hearing. No shared language yet.
They didn’t respond to loud noises. They slept through things that would wake any other kid.
But they reacted to lights. To movement. To touch. To facial expressions.
Steven and I took ASL classes at the community center.
I practiced in the bathroom mirror before work.
We watched videos online at 1 a.m., rewinding the same signs over and over.
“Milk. More. Sleep. Mom. Dad.”
I practiced in the bathroom mirror before work, my fingers stiff and clumsy.
Sometimes I messed up, and Steven would sign, “You just asked the baby for a potato.”
Money was tight.
Hannah was observant, always watching people’s faces. Diana was wild energy, grabbing, kicking, always moving.
Money was tight. I picked up extra shifts. Steven did part-time work from home.
We sold some stuff. We bought secondhand baby clothes.
We were exhausted.
And I had never been so happy in my life.
We celebrated their first birthday with cupcakes and way too many photos.
The first time they signed “Mom” and “Dad,” I nearly passed out.
Hannah tapped her chin and pointed at me, grinning.
Diana copied her, signing sloppily but so proud.
“They know,” Steven signed to me, eyes wet. “They know we’re theirs.”
We celebrated their first birthday with cupcakes and way too many photos.
“What’s wrong with them?”
People stared when we signed in public.
One woman in a grocery store watched us for a while, then asked, “What’s wrong with them?”
I straightened up.
“Nothing,” I said. “They’re deaf, not broken.”
Later, I signed that story to the girls when they were old enough.
We fought for interpreters at school.
They laughed so hard they almost fell off the couch.
Years moved fast.
We fought for interpreters at school. Fought for services. Fought for people to take them seriously.
Hannah fell in love with drawing. She designed dresses, hoodies, whole outfits.
Diana loved building. Blocks, Legos, cardboard, broken electronics from thrift stores.
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