Discovering that her child was born with a disability, his mother signed a ‘declaration of abandonment’ eleven years ago. This statement was seen by Sanya himself when he took personal files to the medical office.

Eleven years ago, when my mother learned that the child she had given birth to was born with a crippled leg, she wrote a formal declaration of abandonment. I later saw that paper myself, the very day I was delivering personal files to the infirmary at the Whitby Childrens Home. The matron handed me a stack of folders and told me to follow her, but a sudden ring on the telephone made her dart away, waving a hand toward the infirmary and saying, Youll have to manage on your own. She never imagined that, upon seeing my own surname on the file, I would open the folder and read my mothers abandonment declaration.

In childrens homes every youngster waits for a parents return, yet I stopped waiting. I stopped weeping, too. My heart grew a steel breastplate that shielded me from the slights of others, from loneliness, from indifference.

The home, like any other, had its own customs. On the eve of New Year each resident penned a letter to Father Christmas. The headmistress passed those letters on to benefactors, who did what they could to grant the wishes. Occasionally the letters even reached a squadron of the Royal Air Force. Most children asked for the same miracle: to find a father and a mother. Those who opened the letters were left scratching their heads, wondering how to supply such a gift.

One crisp morning, Major Clarke, a flightengineer for the RAF, also received such a missive. He slipped it into the pocket of his flightlog and resolved to read it later at home, to discuss with his wife and daughter what could be bought for the boy. That evening, as the family gathered for supper, he recalled the letter, tore it open and read aloud: Dear adults, if you can, please give me a laptop. Theres no need for toys or clothes; we have enough of that. With the internet I could make friends and perhaps even find kindred souls. At the bottom was the signature, Sam Ives, 11years.

My, the children today are clever, his wife remarked. Indeed, the internet can connect him to anyone he needs.

Ethel, their daughter, furrowed her brow, read the letter again, and fell silent. The father noticed the tremor at the corner of her mouth.

Whats the matter? he asked.

She thinks the boy isnt really hoping to locate his parents, Ethel said, He isnt looking for them because they arent there. The laptop is his lifeline out of solitude. He writes of finding friends or kindred souls. Even strangers can become kin. Lets take every penny from my savings, buy him a laptop, and deliver it together.

The New Years celebration in the home went on as usual: a modest programme, Father Christmas and his lady companion lighting the tree, sponsors handing out gifts, and a few families taking children for a weekend away. Sam, as always, expected nothing. He was used to seeing the pretty girls receive attention, while the boys were largely ignored. He had written his letter simply because everyone else did.

That day, among the guests, a man in a RAF flight uniform caught Sams eye. His heart gave a startled beat, then he turned away, exhaling quietly. He took a bag of sweets and, limping slightly, made for the exit.

Sam Ives! a voice called, and Sam turned. Standing behind him was the very RAF officer. Startled, Sam froze, unsure what to do.

Hello, Sam, the officer said. We received your letter and would like to give you a present. But first lets get acquainted. Im Andrew Whitaker, but you may call me Uncle Andrew.

Beside him stood a striking lady. Im Aunt Nora, she said.

And Im Ethel, chirped the girl, smiling. Were about your age, you know.

Im Sam Oborne, I answered, using the name Id taken at the home.

Ethel reached for a small box, handed it to me and said, Its from us. Come with us to a room, and well show you how to use the laptop.

We entered a quiet hall where the children usually did evening lessons. Ethel demonstrated how to switch the machine on and off, log in, browse the web, and she signed me up on a socialnetwork site. Uncle Andrew sat nearby, offering advice now and then. I felt his warmth, his strength, his protection.

The girl chattered like a sparrow, but I noted she wasnt whining; she was deft with the laptop and also a keen member of the schools cricket team. When she left, Aunt Nora gave me a gentle hug; the faint scent of her perfume brushed my nose and eyes. I paused, breath held, then released it and walked down the corridor without looking back.

Well be back soon! Ethel called, waving.

From that moment my life changed dramatically. I no longer cared about the nicknames boys tossed around, nor the teasing of other lads. The internet opened a world of useful knowledge. I had long been fascinated by aircraft; I learned that the first massproduced military transport was the Avro Anson, designed by Sir Roy Fedden, and that the Anson Mk25 was a later variant.

On weekends Uncle Andrew and Ethel would visit. Sometimes we went to the circus, played arcade machines, ate icecream. I was always shy to accept their generosity, uncomfortable that they paid for everything.

One crisp morning, the headmistress summoned me to her office. I entered and saw Aunt Nora standing there; my heart fluttered and my throat went dry.

Sam, the headmistress said, Nora Margaret asks if you may have two days off with her. If you agree, Ill sign you out.

Sam, today is Aviation Day. Uncle Andrew is hosting a big celebration. Hes inviting you to attend. Will you go?

I nodded eagerly, words failing me.

Very well, Nora replied, signing the permission slip.

She took my hand, and we left the office together. First we stopped at a large clothing store where she bought me sturdy jeans and a shirt. She then led me to the shoe department; my worn trainers were tattered, and my feet were of uneven size, so finding a pair took some time.

Ill arrange for an orthopaedic boot after the fete, she promised. One will have a special sole, so youll walk level and the limp will be barely noticeable.

We then visited a barbershop and returned home to fetch Ethel. For the first time in my life I stepped out of the orphanages gates. I had never known a family home, never felt the cosy smell of a livedin house. The warmth that wrapped around me was unlike anything Id experienced. I sat on the edge of a sofa in a bright livingroom and gazed at a huge aquarium where colourful fish swamcreatures Id only ever seen on television.

Im ready, Ethel said. Lets go, Sam, Mum will catch up soon.

We rode the lift down, left the building and walked toward a parked car. A boy near a sandpit shouted, Grandma, Granddad, look!

Hold on a moment, Ethel said, approaching the shouting child. In an instant she turned, and the boy tumbled into the sand.

What are you doing? he complained, lying in the grit. I was just joking.

Play your jokes elsewhere, she replied.

The airfield was painted in bright colours. Uncle Andrew met us there and led us to his aircrafta gleaming silver bomber that seemed to roar with power. My breath caught as I stood close to the massive machine; my spirit was overwhelmed by its might. Later, an airshow commenced. People waved, shouted, and cheered as planes streaked across the sky. When Uncle Andrews aircraft appeared, Ethel waved and shouted, Dads flying! Dad! I leapt clumsily, joining the chorus, Dad! Look, dads up there! I didnt notice that the girl beside me had fallen silent, watching her mother quietly wipe away tears.

After dinner that evening, Uncle Andrew sat beside me, his arm around my shoulders.

You know, he said, we believe everyone should have a family. Only within a family can you truly learn to love, protect, and be loved in return. Would you like to be part of ours?

A tight knot rose in my throat, squeezing my breath. I pressed my cheek to his shoulder and whispered, Dad, Ive waited for you all my life.

A month later, a joyous Sam left the Whitby Childrens Home. I stepped down the porch with my fathers hand in mine, my limp almost gone, and walked toward the gate. We paused at the doorway. I turned, swept my gaze over the home, and waved to the children and carers who lingered on the steps.

Well cross that line now, and a new life will begin for you, my father said. Forget the sorrows you endured here, but remember the people on this step. They helped you survive. Always be grateful to those who lifted you up.

And so, looking back across the years, I recall that distant winter night, the battered letter, the unexpected RAF officer, and the warm embrace that finally gave a broken boy a place to call home.