They usually say curiosity got the cat, but for me, it led to something far greater—a chance to change a life, to find a family I never knew I needed.
It all started on a cool autumn morning. The crisp air kissed my face as I stepped out of the house, my breath visible in the chilly dawn. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the kitchen, where my mother, Helen, was preparing breakfast.
Like every morning, I was on my way to the bakery to pick up warm rolls. It was our little tradition—my mother and I sharing breakfast together, a moment of stability in our small world.
You might wonder why a 30-year-old man like me still lived with his mother. The answer was simple: my father had abandoned her when she told him she was pregnant, leaving her to raise me alone. She had been my only family, my anchor. And in return, I chose to stay, to make sure she never felt lonely again.
As for my love life? Well, I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. I wasn’t conventionally handsome, and after years of failed attempts at dating, I had given up trying. Instead, I devoted myself to my work as a programmer, spending my days coding and my nights tinkering with old gadgets.
That morning, as I walked down the sidewalk, my sneaker scuffed against something hard. Frowning, I looked down and spotted it—a phone, lying abandoned in the grass just off the curb. Its screen was shattered, cracks spreading like a spiderweb across the glass. The casing was dented, the back partially peeled off, as if it had been run over by a car.
“Interesting,” I murmured, picking it up. It was an old keypad model, the kind you rarely saw anymore, usually owned by people who couldn’t afford better.
A challenge. Could I fix it?
Slipping it into my pocket, I continued to the bakery. But the phone nagged at the back of my mind. Why had it been discarded like that? Who had lost it? And why did it feel so… urgent?
By the time I got home, I had almost forgotten about it. My mother and I shared our usual breakfast, talking about little things. But as I cleaned up, my fingers brushed against the broken phone in my pocket.
Curiosity got the better of me.
I pulled out my backup phone, removed its SIM card, and carefully inserted the one from the broken device. If the phone was dead, maybe the SIM still worked.
When I powered it on, a list of contacts appeared—mostly hospitals, schools, and emergency services. But one number stood out, marked as a favorite:
“Daughter.”
Something tightened in my chest. Whose phone was this? And why did it seem like the only person they truly cared about was their daughter?
I hesitated, then pressed the call button.
The phone rang once. Then twice. Then a small, excited voice answered.
“Mom?!”
I froze. “I—no, I’m not your mom. I’m sorry for calling,” I said quickly, ready to hang up. But the little girl’s next words made my heart stop.
“Where is she?” Her voice wavered.
My grip tightened around the phone. “I… I don’t know,” I admitted. “I found this phone on the ground. What’s your name?”
“Julie,” she whispered. “Mom went to the store yesterday and never came back.”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. “Julie, where’s your dad? Your grandma? Anyone I can talk to?”
“I don’t have a dad,” she said softly. “Or a grandma. Just Mom.”
I swallowed hard. “Julie, where do you live?”
“Independence Street. Building Seven, Apartment Eighteen.”
I was already grabbing my coat. “Are you alone right now?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And my legs don’t work. I can’t leave.”
I stopped in my tracks. “What do you mean?”
“I have a wheelchair,” she said simply. “But it’s hard to move around by myself. I’m scared.”
My protective instincts kicked in. “Julie, listen to me. My name is Alan. I’m coming to you right now.”
“Okay,” she said weakly.
My mother, who had been listening, grabbed her coat too. “You’re not going alone,” she said firmly. “If a child is in trouble, we help.”
Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at a run-down apartment building, the kind with flickering hallway lights and mailboxes stuffed with overdue bills.
I knocked on Apartment Eighteen, my heart pounding. A soft, hesitant voice came from inside. “Who is it?”
“It’s Alan,” I said. “I spoke to you on the phone.”
A moment of silence. Then, “The door’s open.”
I pushed it open and stepped inside. A frail little girl sat in a wheelchair in the dimly lit living room. She couldn’t have been older than six or seven. Her dark hair was tangled, her face pale. Her big, tired eyes met mine.
“Will you find my mom?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, tears threatening to spill over.
I knelt in front of her. “I promise.”
Julie’s mother’s name was Victoria. She never left Julie alone this long. Something was terribly wrong.
We found news reports that a woman had been hit by a car last night on Parkova Street. Critical condition. Unconscious. No family contacted.
I called the hospital. “Yes,” a nurse confirmed. “She’s here. Stable but unconscious.”
Julie needed someone. And now, so did her mother.
We took Julie to our home while we rushed to the hospital. When we got there, a nurse hesitated before leading us to Victoria’s room. She was pale, her face bruised, her body weak. When her eyes fluttered open, they filled with panic.
“Julie…?”
“She’s safe,” I reassured her. “She’s waiting for you.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I was trying to get medicine for her. She needs surgery… but I couldn’t afford it. I have no one. No family. No help. It’s always been just me and Julie.”
I clenched my fists. “You’re not alone anymore.”
And I meant it.
With help from donations and specialists, we arranged for Julie’s surgery. The process was long, but it changed everything.
Months later, I stood beside Victoria as we watched Julie take her first shaky steps. She clung to my hand, but she was walking.
Victoria turned to me, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to,” I said simply.
Over time, our bond deepened. Julie became a daughter to me, and Victoria… well, she became more than a friend. Eventually, we became a family.
I never thought I’d have that. But now, standing beside my wife and daughter, I knew—finding that broken phone was the best thing that ever happened to me.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
