Life felt small, steady, manageable. Bills, routines, quiet dreams of kids we’d quietly shelved. Then I turned a corner, and there it was: a stroller.
Alone. On the sidewalk. Not near a driveway, not tucked behind a car. Just… there.
Inside were two babies—twin girls, maybe six months old, wrapped in mismatched blankets. Pink cheeks, tiny puffs of breath in the frigid air. Alive.
No doors opened, no footsteps approached. Just silence.
“Hey, sweethearts,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Where’s your mom?”
No note. No ID. Just them. My hands trembled as I called 911, explaining through a cracking voice that I’d found two infants abandoned in the cold. The dispatcher guided me, telling me to keep them safe, out of the wind. I leaned the stroller against a brick wall, knocked on doors, finally sat on the curb beside them.
“I’m here,” I said. “I won’t leave you.”
Police arrived, followed by a CPS worker. She lifted each baby into her arms, and my chest tightened.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“A temporary foster home,” she said. “They’ll be safe tonight.”
The stroller sat empty. I stood there, breath misting in the morning air, knowing something inside me had changed forever.
That night, I couldn’t eat. Steven noticed. I told him everything.
