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I was rushing towards the turnstile when I noticed a bundle of clothes in a corner. I walked over, peeled back a dark sweatshirt, and saw him

I n the summer of 2000, I could never have imagined becoming a father. I was 34, living in New York City, with a good job in social care, but still in a tiny apartment. I had been with my partner, Pete, for just over three years; we were serious, but we didn’t live together. Becoming a parent was not on my radar.

I was in shock. I sprinted up to the street and found a payphone to call 911. “I found a baby,” I blurted out. I rushed back to the platform and crouched down next to the baby. I stroked his head to comfort him but he pulled a face. “OK, you don’t like that,” I said. We stared at each other. My heart was racing.

It felt like hours, but it was probably only a few minutes before the police arrived. I had to give a statement, and went home for a large drink. Pete and I talked all night; why would the mother have left the baby, why had she chosen to leave him here, in the centre of gay New York?

After a short period of media interest, life returned to normal, until 12 weeks later, when I was asked to testify at a court hearing as the mother could not be found. To my surprise, the judge asked if I had any interest in adopting the baby. The idea hadn’t even entered my head, but instantly, I desperately wanted to say yes. I told her I needed to talk to my partner but, in my own mind, I had decided that was what I wanted to do.