I still remember the night I found him—a tiny bundle wrapped in a worn-out blanket, left in a basket near my fire station. It was my shift, and the cold wind howled as if mourning the little soul abandoned to fate. He was barely a week old, his cries weak but full of determination. My partner, Joe, and I exchanged glances, unspoken words passing between us.

“We’ll call social services,” Joe said, his voice steady. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this baby was meant for something more… or maybe just meant for me. Months passed, and when no one came forward to claim him, I filed for adoption. I named him Leo because he roared through every challenge, just like a little lion. Being a single dad wasn’t easy, but Leo made every sleepless night and every spilled spaghetti sauce stain on the carpet worth it. He was my son in every way that mattered.