Five years ago, I never imagined my life would change forever one cold, stormy night at the fire station. I was halfway through my shift, sipping on some lukewarm coffee, when a faint cry broke through the eerie silence outside. My partner Joe and I stepped outside and found a tiny newborn wrapped in a thin blanket, left alone at our doorstep.

The baby was no older than a few days, shivering from the cold, crying weakly. My heart clenched in that instant. We called Child Protective Services, but even then, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. When no one came to claim him, I knew what I had to do. I started the long, grueling adoption process—facing doubts from social workers about my ability to raise a child as a single firefighter.