Most people don’t notice janitors. I didn’t mind. I worked nights for decades, scrubbing floors so my three children could have better lives. They grew up, moved on, and slowly forgot me.
Then one winter morning, while cleaning a highway rest stop, I heard a faint cry. Behind a trash bin, wrapped in a thin blanket, was a newborn boy. A note read: I couldn’t do it. Please keep him safe.
I held him, called for help, and rode with him to the hospital. They called him John Doe. I called him my miracle.
Fostering him meant changing everything. I cut my hours, sold what little I had, and made it work. Six months later, I signed the papers. He was my son.
My biological children barely reacted. One hoped it “wasn’t permanent.” It didn’t matter.
John grew into a brilliant, kind young man—science fairs, scholarships, dreams bigger than anything I’d ever known. At eighteen, he stood on a stage and said I was the reason he existed as he did. I’d never felt prouder.
Years later, when I fell and broke my hip, he came running. Moved home. Cooked, cleaned, stayed.
When I updated my will, everything went to him. My other children were angry—but John never asked for a thing.
I didn’t save a life that night.
I found one.
And in loving him, I found mine too.