“Sit,” I signed. “Both of you.”
I told them everything. Their eyes widened. “Are we in trouble?” Hannah asked.
“No,” I signed. “They loved your work. They want to make real clothes from your ideas. And they want to pay you.”
“How much?” Diana asked.
I signed the number. Silence. Then both signed at once: “WHAT?!”
Tears filled Diana’s eyes. “We just wanted shirts that don’t pull on hearing aids. Pants that are easier to put on. Stuff that makes life less annoying.”
“And that’s everything,” I signed back. “You used your experiences to help other kids. That’s huge.”
They launched at me, hugging hard. “I love you,” Hannah signed. “Thank you for learning our language.”
“Thank you for taking us in,” Diana added. “For not saying we were too much.”
I wiped my face. “I found you in a stroller on a cold sidewalk. I promised myself I wouldn’t leave you. Deaf, hearing, rich, broke—you’re my daughters.”
That night, we sat at the table, going through emails, writing questions, texting a lawyer. We talked about saving, college, giving back to their school’s deaf program, fixing up the house. Maybe I could finally quit the brutal early shift.
