“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.”
I whispered, “My girls did that? Hannah and Diana?”
“You’ve raised very talented young women,” she said. “We’d love to set up a meeting—with interpreters, of course.”
When I hung up, I sat stunned. Steven walked in. “Abbie? You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Closer to an angel,” I said, half laughing, half crying.
I explained, and his jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I were,” I said. “Our girls. The ones someone left in a stroller. They did this.”
Later, Hannah and Diana stormed in. “We’re hungry,” Diana signed. “Feed us.”
“What’s wrong with your face?” Hannah asked. “You’ve been crying.”
