They say curiosity killed the cat, but for me, curiosity led to something extraordinary—a family I never expected to have. The day I found that broken phone, I had no idea it would change so many lives, including my own.
It was a crisp autumn morning, the kind where the air felt fresh against my skin and the leaves crunched under my feet. I stepped outside, my breath visible in the cool air, heading toward the bakery like I did every morning. My mother, Helen, was already in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. It was our little tradition—to share breakfast together, just the two of us. It made our small world feel stable.
I know what you’re thinking. Why was a 30-year-old successful man still living with his mother? Well, the answer was simple. I never knew my father. When my mother told him she was pregnant, he vanished, leaving her alone to raise me. She had no one, and neither did I. So we stuck together.
And my love life? Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. I never had the kind of looks that turned heads, and dating had always been a struggle. Over time, I just gave up on trying. Instead, I poured my energy into my work. I was a programmer, spending most of my time behind a screen, lost in lines of code. It was easier that way.
That morning, as I walked down the sidewalk, my sneaker scraped against something hard. I looked down and spotted it—a phone, its screen shattered like a spiderweb, lying in the grass near the curb.
Curious, I picked it up. The casing was dented, the back peeling off as if it had been run over by a car. It wasn’t anything fancy—an old keypad phone, the kind that belonged to someone who couldn’t afford an upgrade.
I turned it over in my hand. “Maybe I can fix it,” I muttered to myself, slipping it into my pocket before continuing on my way.
The phone lingered in my thoughts as I bought fresh rolls from the bakery. It wasn’t just the damage that unsettled me—it was the way it had been left behind, abandoned like an afterthought.
When I got home, the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread filled the air. I pushed aside thoughts of the phone as I sat down to eat with my mother. It was only later, as I cleaned up, that I remembered it. Pulling it from my pocket, I examined it again. The screen was dark, completely dead.
A thought struck me. If the phone itself was useless, maybe the SIM card still worked. I carefully removed it and slid it into my spare phone. When I powered it on, a list of contacts appeared. Most of them were hospitals, schools, and emergency services. Only one number stood out—labeled simply as “Daughter.”
My chest tightened. Whoever owned this phone had only one person marked as important.
Without thinking, I pressed the call button. The phone rang once. Twice.
Then, a small, hopeful voice answered. “Mom?!”
I hesitated. “I—no, I’m not your mom. I’m sorry. I found this phone—”
“Where is she?” The girl’s voice wavered with panic.
My stomach dropped. “I don’t know. I just found this phone. Who are you?”
“Julie,” she whispered. “My mom went to the store yesterday and never came back.”
A chill ran down my spine. “Julie, do you have anyone with you? Your dad? A grandparent?”
“No. Just Mom.”
I swallowed hard. “Do you know where you live?”
“Independence Street. Building seven, apartment eighteen.”
“Julie, are you okay? Are you alone?”
“Yes, I’m alone,” she admitted, her voice small. “But my legs don’t work. I can’t leave.”
I stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“I have a wheelchair,” she said simply. “But I can’t move it by myself. I’m scared.”
That was it. I was done waiting.
“Julie, listen to me. My name is Alan, and I’m coming to get you. Stay where you are.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
I hung up and grabbed my jacket. My mother, who had been listening, stood up immediately. “You’re not going alone. If there’s a child in trouble, we both help.”
We took a cab and arrived at the apartment complex in fifteen minutes. It was run-down, the kind of place where the hallway lights flickered and mailboxes overflowed with unpaid bills.
I knocked on Apartment Eighteen. “Julie? It’s Alan. I spoke to you on the phone.”
A soft voice came through the door. “It’s open.”
I pushed the door open and found her—frail, small, sitting in a wheelchair in the middle of a dimly lit room. She couldn’t have been older than six or seven. Her hair was unkempt, her face pale. She looked up at me with tired, sad eyes.
“Will you find my mom?” she asked, tears brimming in her eyes.
My heart clenched. “I promise. But first, let’s make sure you’re okay. Do you have food?”
She shook her head. “I ate a sandwich yesterday. It was the last one.”
I turned to my mother. “We need to get her something to eat.”
While my mom stayed with Julie, I ran out to get groceries. When I returned, my mother quickly prepared food, and Julie ate hungrily. But we didn’t have time to waste.
I grabbed my phone and searched online for recent incidents in the area. My stomach dropped when I saw the headline: A woman had been hit by a car yesterday on Parkova Street. She was in critical condition at a local hospital.
I called the hospital, my hands shaking.
“Yes,” the nurse confirmed. “She was admitted yesterday. She’s stable but unconscious. We couldn’t reach any family.”
I turned to my mother. “We have to go.”
Before leaving, we reassured Julie that she was safe. Our kind neighbor, Maureen, offered to watch her while we checked on her mother.
When we arrived at the hospital, I explained the situation. The nurse hesitated but finally said, “She just woke up. She’s very weak, but I’ll let her know you’re here.”
Minutes later, we were allowed into her room. Victoria was pale, bruised, her eyes fluttering open as I stepped closer.
“Who…?” she rasped.
“I’m Alan,” I said gently. “I found your phone. Julie’s safe.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Julie… she’s okay?”
I nodded. “She’s been waiting for you.”
She broke down, whispering, “I never wanted this.”
Slowly, she explained everything. She had no family. No safety net. She had been struggling, trying to save up for a surgery Julie desperately needed. The accident had happened while she was hurrying home with medicine for her daughter.
Something inside me shifted. “You’re not alone anymore.”
And I meant it.
Over time, with donations and help from specialists, Julie had her surgery. It was a long road, but months later, I watched as she took her first steps, clinging to my hand.
Victoria, standing beside me, whispered through her tears, “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to.”
We became more than just strangers who crossed paths. Over time, our bond deepened. Eventually, it turned into something more.
And that’s how, through a broken phone and a desperate little girl, I found the family I never thought I’d have.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
