“There’s something you need to know about the twins,” she said gently. “They’re profoundly deaf. They’ll need early intervention, sign language, specialized support. A lot of families decline when they hear that.”
I looked at Steven. He didn’t even blink.
“I don’t care if they’re deaf,” I said firmly. “I care that someone left them on a sidewalk. We’ll learn whatever we need.”
Steven nodded. “We still want them.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Okay. Then let’s move forward.”
A week later, they arrived—two car seats, two diaper bags, two sets of wide, curious eyes. “We’re calling them Hannah and Diana,” I told the worker, signing their names clumsily.
Those first months were chaos. They didn’t respond to loud noises, but they reacted to lights, movement, touch, and facial expressions. Steven and I took ASL classes at the community center, practiced in the bathroom mirror, watched videos at 1 a.m.
“Milk. More. Sleep. Mom. Dad.”
