Fate gifted me a son… Once, I gave a homeless boy a chance, and now he’s a university student!
My life took a turn on a chilly autumn evening.
I was heading home after a long day at work. The wind was biting, and the city felt deserted—few people hurried along, tucking their faces into their collars.
As I turned onto my street, a slender figure suddenly emerged from the shadow of one of the houses.
In front of me stood a young boy—thin, wearing a light shirt, clutching a knife in his trembling hands. I couldn’t tell if it was the cold or fear causing him to shake.
“Give me your wallet,” he croaked out in a hoarse voice.
I calmly took out my wallet and handed it to him. Then, after a moment’s thought, I took off my coat and offered it to him as well.
He stepped back, eyes wide with surprise.
“Why are you doing this?”
I smiled:
“Because if you’re in this situation, it means you had no other choice.”
The boy suddenly burst into tears. Now, with his face illuminated by a streetlight, I saw he was just a child. No older than fifteen, though he was nearly as tall as me.
I suggested he come to my home for a cup of hot tea.
He hesitated, unsure if he could trust me. But eventually, he agreed.
I lived alone… but that night, everything changed.
It was warm at home. I brewed some tea and sat him at the table.
He glanced around with open curiosity. When his eyes landed on my bookshelf, he froze.
“You have a lot of books,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Have you read all of them?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve never read a book in my life,” he confessed, his voice laced with sadness, not shame.
Gradually, he opened up. He told me he was born into a poor family. His mother died when he was young. He was meant to go to a children’s home, but he ran away.
Since then, he lived on the streets. Learned to survive. Learned to steal.
And his father?
To that question, he just lowered his head and said nothing.
I looked at him and understood: he was just a child. Abandoned, with no one to care for him. Life hadn’t given him a chance, but if no one helped, he would be lost.
“Stay with me. At least spend the night in the warmth,” I offered.
He looked at me with distrust, but agreed.
I welcomed him like my own son.
That night, I hardly slept. Thoughts twirled in my head: what would happen to him next? Where would he go tomorrow?
By morning, I knew I couldn’t let him go.
“Do you want to try starting a new life?” I asked over breakfast.
He shrugged.
“It’s not like I’ve got anything to lose.”
So, he stayed with me.
I helped him restore his identification, got him back into school. The beginning was tough—he hadn’t been in school since fourth grade—but he gave it his all. At first, teachers doubted his potential, but after a few months, they saw it in him.
I taught him what I knew. Helped with his studies. Explained that theft wasn’t the answer, and that you could achieve much in life with effort.
He was so eager to learn! He read everything he could get his hands on. Sometimes he stayed up studying late into the night.
I was proud of him.
Today, he’s a university student!
Several years have passed.
Now Oliver is in university. He studies and works, paying for his education himself because he doesn’t want to be a burden to me.
I know he has a bright future ahead. He’ll find a good job and start a family.
He’s no longer that frozen boy with a knife.
He’s my son.
Yes, officially, his documents don’t bear my name, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is when he addresses me, he says:
“Dad…”
And that is the most precious thing I have.
