Fate granted me a son… Once, I gave a chance to a homeless lad, and now he is a university student!

My life changed one chilly autumn evening.

I was returning home after a long day’s work. The wind cut straight to the bone, and the city seemed deserted—the few passersby hurried along, faces buried in their collars.

As I turned onto my street, a thin figure stepped from the shadows of a doorway.

Before me stood a boy—pale, shivering in a threadbare shirt, clutching a knife in trembling hands. I couldn’t tell whether it was the cold or fear that made him shake.

“Give me your wallet,” he croaked.

Calmly, I took out my billfold and handed it over. Then, after a moment’s thought, I removed my coat and offered that too.

He flinched, staring at me with wide eyes.

“Why would you do that?”

I smiled.

“Because if you’re standing here like this, you must have no other choice.”

The lad suddenly broke into tears. Now, in the glow of the streetlamp, I saw he was barely more than a child—no older than fifteen, though nearly as tall as me.

I asked him to come home with me for a cup of hot tea.

He hesitated, unsure whether to trust me, but in the end, he nodded.

I lived alone… but that night, everything changed.

The house was warm. I brewed tea and sat him at the table.

He looked around with open curiosity. When his gaze landed on my bookcase, he froze.

“You’ve got a lot of books,” he said.

“I do.”

“Have you read them all?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve never read a book in my life,” he admitted, his voice free of shame—only sorrow.

Bit by bit, he opened up. He told me he was born into poverty, that his mother had died young. He was meant for an orphanage, but he ran away.

Since then, he’d lived on the streets. Learned to survive. Learned to steal.

His father?

At that, he only bowed his head and went silent.

Watching him, I understood—he was just a child. Abandoned. Unwanted. Life had given him no chances, but if no one reached out, he’d vanish forever.

“Stay with me. At least for tonight, sleep somewhere warm,” I offered.

He studied me warily but agreed.

I took him in as my own.

That night, I barely slept. My mind raced—what would become of him? Where would he go tomorrow?

By morning, I knew I wouldn’t let him leave.

“Want to try starting fresh?” I asked over breakfast.

He shrugged.

“Not like I’ve got anything to lose.”

So he stayed.

I sorted his papers, enrolled him back in school. At first, it was hard—he’d left in Year 4—but he worked tirelessly. His teachers doubted he’d amount to much, but within months, they saw his promise.

I taught him what I knew. Helped with his studies. Explained that theft was no life—that with effort, he could make something of himself.

His hunger for learning was boundless. He devoured every book in reach, often burning the midnight oil over his work.

I was proud.

Today, he’s at university!

Years have passed.

Now William is a student. He works to pay his way, refusing to be a burden.

I know his future is bright. A good job, a family.

He’s no longer that frozen boy with a knife.

He’s my son.

No, I’m not named in his papers, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is when he speaks to me, he says:

“Dad…”

And that’s the most precious thing I have.