The dispatcher’s tone shifted instantly. “Stay with them. 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 reassured me.
I pushed the stroller against a brick wall to block the wind and knocked on doors. Lights flicked on, curtains twitched, but no one opened up. So I sat on the curb beside them, knees pulled up, whispering, “It’s okay. You’re not alone anymore. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
Eventually, police arrived, followed by a CPS worker in a beige coat. She checked them over, asked for my statement, then lifted one baby on each hip and carried them to her car.
“Where are they going?” I asked, chest aching.
“To a temporary foster home,” she said. “We’ll try to find family. I promise they’ll be safe tonight.”
The car drove away, leaving the stroller empty. Something inside me cracked open.
That night, I couldn’t stop seeing their faces. At dinner, I pushed food around my plate until Steven set 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 with CPS. “I can’t stop thinking about them,” I admitted. “What if no one takes them? What if they get split up?”
He went quiet, then said, “What if we tried to foster them?”
I laughed nervously. “Steven, they’re twins. Babies. We’re barely keeping up now.”
“You already love them,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I can see it. Let’s at least try.”
That night, we cried, talked, planned, and panicked. The next day, I called CPS.
We began the process—home visits, questions about our marriage, income, childhoods, trauma, even our fridge. A week later, the same social worker sat on our couch.
