I was late. Again. Morning traffic was a disaster and I barely slid into the back of a yellow cab before blurting out the address. The driver nodded, and we were off.
A few blocks in, I noticed something on the seat next to me — a phone. Not mine. No case, just a cracked screen lighting up with missed calls and one unread message flashing on the lock screen.
Normally, I’d hand it straight to the driver, but something made me pause.
The message said:
“Today’s your big day. Your dad would be proud. Love you always.”
I stared. It wasn’t from a spammer. It was warm. Personal. The kind of message that makes you feel like someone is in your corner no matter what.
Curiosity got the best of me.
I clicked the notifications and saw photos — lots of them. A woman standing in front of a courtroom, dressed sharp, holding law books. Another of her with a tiny baby swaddled in pink. A third with an older man who had oxygen tubes in his nose, smiling in a wheelchair.
Something about these photos… it didn’t feel like just anyone’s phone. It felt like a window into a life mid-transformation.
I made a decision: I was going to find her.
What happened next? I still think about it.
The cab dropped me at my office, but instead of rushing in, I asked for ten more minutes. I scrolled through the phone’s emergency contacts and found one labeled “Uncle Ray ❤️.”
I called.
“Hello?” an older voice answered, cautious.
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you — I found this phone in a cab, and I think it belongs to someone very special to you.”
A beat. Then a sigh. “Oh thank God. That must be Kira’s. She’s been freaking out.”
He gave me an address nearby and asked if I could drop it off. I said yes.
I arrived at the courthouse.
Kira was standing just outside the steps, no phone, pacing with her hands clenched. She was younger than I expected — maybe late 20s. When she saw the phone, she gasped like it was air and she’d been underwater.
“You found it?” she said, eyes welling up. “I… I thought it was gone.”
She told me today was her first big case as a public defender. Her baby was home with her mom. Her dad — the man in the photos — had passed away six months ago. This phone held everything. Every pep talk. Every last message. She couldn’t bear to lose it.
I handed it to her like it was made of glass.
“I saw the message from your mom,” I said quietly. “Your dad would be proud.”
She smiled through tears.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “You have no idea what this means.”
Maybe I didn’t — not fully — but I knew this: Sometimes life gives you a moment to pause and choose kindness. To hand someone their courage back when they need it most.
And all it took was staying in the cab just ten more minutes.
