Twelve years ago, at five in the morning, during the quiet hum of the city waking up, I discovered something that would change the course of my life forever. I was on my usual trash route, maneuvering one of those monstrous garbage trucks through streets cloaked in darkness and frost. The sky had just begun to lighten, the first hints of dawn brushing the buildings with pale gold, and the air was sharp enough to sting lungs and cheeks alike. My gloves were wet with condensation from the metal handles, my breath steaming in little clouds, and I was half-asleep, humming along to the faint radio, just counting the hours until my route ended. That morning, though, as I turned a familiar corner, I froze. There, on the sidewalk, alone and abandoned, sat a stroller. A stroller that should not have been there, but in it… two tiny baby girls, wrapped in mismatched blankets and shivering quietly, their little chests rising and falling with delicate puffs of breath.
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