Fate gave me a son… One day, I gave a chance to a homeless lad, and now he’s a university student!

My life changed on a chilly autumn evening.

I was heading home after a long day at work. The wind cut right through me, and the city seemed deserted—just a few passersby hurrying along, collars pulled up against the cold.

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

A boy stood before me—skinny, shivering in nothing but a thin shirt, clutching a knife in trembling hands. I couldn’t tell whether it was the autumn chill or fear that made him shake.

“Give me your wallet,” he croaked.

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

He flinched, staring at me with wide eyes.

“Why’d you do that?”

I smiled.

“Because if you’re in this position, you must’ve had no other choice.”

The lad suddenly burst into tears. Now, seeing his face under the streetlamp, I realised he was just a kid—no more than fifteen, though nearly as tall as me.

I invited him back to mine for a hot cuppa.

He hesitated, unsure whether to trust me. But in the end, he came along.

I lived alone… but that night, everything changed.
The flat was warm. I put the kettle on and sat him at the table.

He looked around with open curiosity. When his eyes landed on my bookshelf, he froze.

“You’ve got a lot of books,” he said.

“I have.”

“Read ’em all?”

“Course.”

“I’ve never read a book in my life,” he admitted, and there wasn’t a hint of shame in his voice—just sadness.

Bit by bit, he opened up. His family had been poor. His mum died when he was little. He was meant to go into care, but he ran away.

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

His dad?

At that question, he just hung his head and fell silent.

I looked at him and saw—just a kid. Abandoned, unwanted. Life hadn’t given him a single break, but if no one reached out, he’d vanish for good.

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

He gave me a doubtful look but nodded.

I took him in as my own.
I barely slept that night. Questions raced through my head—what would become of him? Where would he go tomorrow?

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

“Fancy a fresh start?” I asked over breakfast.

He shrugged.

“Nowt to lose.”

So he stayed.

I sorted his paperwork, got him back into school. At first, it was tough—he’d dropped out in Year 4—but he tried. His teachers didn’t think much of him at first, but within months, they saw his potential.

I taught him what I knew. Helped with his studies. Told him thieving wasn’t the way—that with hard work, he could make something of himself.

The lad had a hunger for learning! He’d read anything he could get his hands on. Often stayed up late poring over textbooks.

I was proud of him.

Now? He’s at uni!
Years have passed.

Now, Oliver—that’s his name—is a student. Works part-time, pays for his own tuition, doesn’t want to be a burden.

I know life’ll treat him well. He’ll land a job, start a family.

He’s not that frozen boy with a knife anymore.

He’s my son.

Aye, I’m not down as his dad on paper—but that doesn’t matter. What matters is when he speaks to me, he says:

“Dad…”

And that’s the best thing I’ve got.