In 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.

One August evening, I had finished work late and was hurrying to a dinner reservation I had with Pete. I was rushing towards the turnstile at Union Square station when I noticed a bundle of clothes in a corner. I saw it move and stopped in my tracks. I walked over, peeled back a dark sweatshirt, and saw him: a newborn baby, with the umbilical cord still attached.

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?