They always say curiosity killed the cat, but in my case, it became the key that helped a desperate family find the support they’d needed for years. That curiosity—the very moment I picked up that broken phone—set in motion a chain of events that led to a life I never could have imagined.
It was a crisp autumn morning when I stepped outside, the cool air brushing my face. My mother, Helen, had already started breakfast, and as usual, I was on my way to the bakery to fetch fresh rolls for her. Little did I know, that day would be anything but ordinary.
Breakfast together was our little ritual, a way to anchor our small world. You might wonder why a thirty-year-old man like me still lived with his mother. The truth was simple: I never knew my father. He left when my mother revealed she was pregnant. We both carried that loneliness, and so we created our own little family, just the two of us.
As for my love life? Honestly, it was non-existent. I’d never been a social butterfly, and conventional attractiveness had never been my strong suit. Dating had always been a struggle, and eventually, I gave up entirely. Instead, I poured myself into programming, spending my days coding and my nights tinkering with gadgets.
That morning, my sneaker caught on something hard along the sidewalk. Looking down, I found it: a phone, its screen cracked in a spiderweb pattern, lying abandoned in the grass by the curb.
Curiosity sparked. I picked it up. The casing was battered, the back partially peeled, as though it had been run over. It wasn’t valuable—an old keypad phone—but something about it intrigued me.
“Maybe I can fix it,” I murmured to myself.
I slipped it into my pocket and continued to the bakery, but my mind lingered on the phone. It wasn’t just the damage—it was how it had been left behind, discarded in a rush.
Back home, after enjoying breakfast with my mother, I remembered the phone. I removed its SIM card and inserted it into my backup phone, hoping it still worked. A list of contacts appeared, most hospitals, schools, and emergency numbers. Only one was marked “Daughter.”
A pang of worry hit me. Who had lost this phone? Why did it seem the only person they cared about was this “Daughter”? On impulse, I dialed.
A small, trembling voice answered. “Mom?!”
I froze. “I—I’m not your mom. I’m sorry,” I stammered. But the girl’s next words stopped me.
“Where is she?” Her voice quivered.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I found your phone. Who are you?”
“I’m Julie. My mom went to the store yesterday and didn’t come back,” she said, her voice breaking.
My heart sank. “Where’s your dad, or grandma, anyone you can call?”
“I don’t have a dad. Or a grandma. Just Mom,” she whispered.
I asked if she knew where she lived. “Independence Street. Building 7, Apartment 18.”
“Are you okay? Are you alone?” I pressed.
“Yes… I’m alone. But I can’t walk. I’m in a wheelchair,” she admitted.
My protective instincts took over. “Julie, I’m coming. I’ll be there soon.”
My mother, listening nearby, grabbed her coat. “You’re not going alone,” she said firmly. “If a child needs help, we step in.”
We hailed a cab and arrived within fifteen minutes. The building was worn, hallways flickering with dim lights, mailboxes overflowing. I knocked on Apartment 18, unsure of what awaited me.
A tiny girl in a wheelchair peeked from the living room, her hair messy, her eyes wide and weary. “Will you find my mom?” she asked, trembling.
I knelt beside her. “We will. But first, let’s make sure you’re safe. Do you have food?”
“No,” she said.
Helen quickly prepared a meal while I searched online. My stomach dropped when I found a news report: a woman had been hit by a car yesterday on Parkova Street. She was in critical condition.
I called the hospital and confirmed it was Victoria—Julie’s mom. She was stable but unconscious. My mother and I decided to leave Julie with our neighbor Maureen while we visited the hospital.
Victoria regained consciousness slowly. Pale, bruised, but alive, she saw me and Helen. Tears welled. “Julie… is she okay?”
“Yes. She’s safe. She’s been waiting for you,” I said.
Victoria explained her story—abandoned as a child, raising Julie alone, struggling after leaving an abusive husband, unable to reach out for help. My heart ached for her.
“I’ll help you,” I promised. “Julie deserves a chance.”
With donations and a specialist, we arranged surgery for Julie. Months later, she took her first steps, shaky but victorious, holding my hand. Victoria, fully recovered, cried tears of gratitude.
Over time, our bond deepened. I fell in love with Victoria, and together, we became a family. Julie, whom I had saved, became my daughter in every sense.
I never imagined finding a family in such unexpected circumstances—but now, standing beside Victoria and Julie, I knew I had finally found home. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.