“The two men who saved your life are right outside, waiting to say hello.”
I blinked at the nurse, still piecing things together. My body was groggy—dehydrated, weak from a virus, and overwhelmed by exhaustion. But the second she said, “Your babies are safe,” something inside me relaxed. It was like a knot deep in my chest finally loosened.
Later, the doctor explained that my blood pressure had crashed—a mix of the flu, stress, and pushing myself too hard for too long. My body had finally said, “enough.”
But to understand why this moment mattered so much, I need to rewind a little.
It all started with a garbage truck.
When my twins, Jesse and Lila, were about two years old, they became obsessed—not with garbage, but with the truck. Every Monday morning, like clockwork, they’d press their noses to the window, waiting for the rumble of that big machine rolling down our street.
Theo was the first driver to notice. He’s a tall guy with kind eyes and a calm voice. He’d give a little honk, just enough to say hello. Rashad, his partner, was more animated—he’d wave like he’d known the kids forever.
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