They often say curiosity killed the cat, but in my case, it helped a distressed family find the assistance they needed for a long time. My curiosity on the day I discovered that damaged phone also led to a happily unexpected life I never imagined.
It was a clear, cool morning when I left my house, the breeze of fall brushing my face. My mother, Helen, was already preparing breakfast, and as usual, I was heading to the bakery to pick up fresh bread rolls for her. I had no idea that this day would turn out to be very memorable for both of us.
It was our small routine to have breakfast together, which gave a sense of stability to our quiet world. You might wonder why a successful man in his thirties would still live with his mother.
The truth is, I never knew my father. He left my mother when she told him she was pregnant. Because of that, my mother and I were both lonely, and to avoid that, we chose to live together.
What about my love life? Well, I’m not exactly a social butterfly—never was. My lack of traditional looks made dating difficult, and I had given up trying a long time ago. Instead, I focused on my coding work, spending days on my computer and nights fixing gadgets.
That morning, as I wandered down the sidewalk, my sneaker scraped against something hard. I looked down and saw it—a phone with a cracked screen like a spider’s web, lying in the grass just off the street.
With my interest piqued, I picked it up. The cover was bent, the back partly peeled, as if it had been run over. It wasn’t a new model—an older keypad phone, the kind usually seen in the hands of those who couldn’t afford better devices.
I turned it over in my hand, seeing a small challenge. “Maybe I can repair this,” I thought.
I slipped it into my pocket and kept walking to the bakery, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that phone. It wasn’t just because of the damage—it was the way it was abandoned, like someone had hurriedly thrown it away.
By the time I returned home, I had forgotten about the broken phone in my pocket. My mom and I enjoyed the tasty breakfast she had made, and later, I took out my own phone to remove its SIM card.
If that old phone was broken, maybe its SIM card still worked, I thought. Carefully, I inserted it into my backup phone and turned it on. A list of contacts appeared; most were hospitals, schools, and emergency lines. Only one was marked as a favorite—”Daughter.”
Something clenched in my chest. Who had lost this phone? And why did it seem like the only person they cared about was this “Daughter”? Without thinking, I dialed the number. It rang once, then again.
A small, eager voice answered. “Mom?!”
My breath caught. “I—no, I’m not your mom. Sorry for calling,” I said quickly, ready to end the call, but then the girl said something that made me stop.
“Where is she?” Her voice faltered slightly.
I admitted, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know. I found a damaged phone and used its SIM. Who are you?” I asked curiously, sensing something was wrong.
After a brief silence, she spoke. “Julie. My mom went to the store yesterday and hasn’t come back.”
A cold wave spread through me. “Julie, do you have a father, grandmother, or anyone I can talk to?”
“I don’t have a father,” she said softly. “Or a grandma. Just Mom.”
I swallowed hard. “Do you know where you live?”
“On Independence Street. Building seven, apartment 18.”
My grip on the phone tightened. “Julie, are you okay? Are you alone right now?”
“Yes, I’m fine and alone,” she whispered. “But I can’t move my legs. I can’t leave.”
I stood quickly. “Your legs? What do you mean?”
“I have a wheelchair,” she explained plainly. “But moving around is hard without help. I’m scared.”
Without hesitation, I told her, “Julie, listen carefully. My name is Alan. I’m coming to get you. I’ll be there soon, alright?”
“Okay,” she responded softly before I ended the call.
My mother, who had been listening, immediately grabbed her coat. “You’re not going alone,” she said firmly. “If a child is in trouble, we have to help.”
This wasn’t how I wanted my weekend to go, but I knew it was the right decision. Finding that phone was fate. We flagged down a cab and reached the apartment building in under fifteen minutes.
It was an old building, with flickering corridor lights and mailbox stacks full of overdue notices.
I braced myself as I knocked on Apartment 18, unsure of what I’d find.
A soft, hesitant voice responded. “Who is it?”
“It’s Alan,” I announced. “We talked on the phone.”
She replied, “The door’s open. Come in.”
I pushed the door open slightly. Inside, a tiny girl, no older than six or seven, looked up at me from her wheelchair. Her hair was messy, her face pale and sad, and her eyes were tired but wide.
My heart ached.
“Will you find my mom?” she asked, voice trembling, tears in her eyes.
I knew then that the journey ahead would reveal truths I wasn’t prepared for, but there was no turning back now. I knelt before her and said, “We will. But first, are you okay? Do you have food?”
She shook her head. “I ate a sandwich yesterday. That was my last.”
“I’ll find something soon,” I reassured her.
Taking a deep breath, I asked, “Julie, what’s your mom’s name?”
“Victoria,” she answered quietly. “She usually doesn’t leave me alone this long.”
That made me more anxious.
“She’s a good mom, and she usually comes back after errands, but this time she didn’t. I called her, but her number didn’t work. No neighbors would help because everyone keeps to themselves,” she admitted.
My heart broke, and my mind raced. Something was terribly wrong. Victoria was missing, and now Julie was alone, in a wheelchair, unable to move easily, with no one to rely on.
But we were here now, so I told her, “I’m going to look for food. My mom, Helen, will stay with you, okay?”
“Okay,” she whispered.
When I got back, my mother quickly prepared some food, which Julie ate eagerly. We knew we had to find Victoria quickly. I searched online on my phone, looking for news, and my stomach sank when I saw it: a woman had been hit by a car yesterday on Parkova Street. She was in critical condition at a nearby hospital.
I called right away, but it took several tries to reach the hospital’s busy line.
“Yes,” a nurse confirmed after I explained I was with Victoria’s worried daughter. “She was admitted yesterday. She’s stable but unconscious. We couldn’t reach her family.”
My chest tightened. “I’m coming now,” I said immediately, not waiting for permission.
My mother and I decided to leave Julie at our apartment with our neighbor, Maureen, who kindly offered to watch her while we checked the hospital.
When we arrived there, I explained everything to the staff. The nurse hesitated but finally said, “She just woke up. She’s very weak, and her condition is serious, but you can see her. Maybe she’ll want to talk to you.”
When they brought her in, Victoria looked pale and bruised. Her eyes fluttered open as I stepped closer.
“Who…?” she rasped.
“I’m Alan, and this is my mother, Helen,” I said softly. “I found your phone, and I spoke to Julie. She’s waiting for you.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Julie… is she okay?!”
I nodded. “She’s scared, but she’s fine. She’s been waiting for her mom.”
Victoria looked away, guilt all over her face. “I never wanted this.”
I sat down nearby. “Victoria, what happened?”
She swallowed hard. “I was hit on my way to buy medicine for Julie. She has a health condition… I’ve been trying to save for surgery, but it’s hard. I have no family. I was adopted as a child, no relatives, no safety net. Julie and I are all I have.”
My heart went out to her.
“We shouldn’t be in this situation. After I divorced Julie’s abusive father, I had nothing. I’ve struggled ever since. The ex-husband’s family refuses help, and I didn’t know who else to turn to,” she explained.
She continued, her voice trembling. “I never wanted Julie to feel abandoned, but I was too scared to ask for help. I thought if I kept quiet, no one would know I failed as a mother.”
“I couldn’t afford a car, so I walked everywhere. Last night, I hurried home when the accident happened. I woke up scared—not for myself, but because I knew Julie was alone,” she said.
I exhaled, clutching the arms of my chair. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Her gaze lifted, a mix of wariness and hope.
I decided then and there, “I’ll help you. Julie deserves a chance.”
I contacted some people, and with donations and a specialist’s help, we arranged surgery for Julie. It was a long process, but it changed everything.
Months later, I watched Julie take her first unsteady steps. She clung to my hand, but she was walking. Victoria, who fully recovered, stood beside me, tears streaming down her face. She looked at me and whispered softly, “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to,” I replied.
Over time, Julie and I grew close, and my relationship with her mother deepened because of the love we shared for her. Eventually, we became more than strangers who crossed paths. I never thought I’d have a family, but now, standing beside the woman I loved and married, and the girl I helped save and adopted, I realized I had found my own family.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
