I thought I had lost everything when I left my career in journalism to become a private detective. My family saw it as a disgrace, and I started to wonder if they were right. No clients, no money, just a pile of bills and regrets. But then, one afternoon, a teenage girl walked into my office, looking for her mother—and that’s when everything changed.
It was just another dreary day in my small, dimly lit office. I was hunched over the desk, sorting through the endless stack of mail—mostly bills, more bills, and a few useless advertisements. The usual.
I let out a long sigh and pushed the papers aside, rubbing my tired eyes.
I had once been a journalist—a good one, even. But something was missing. Stories felt incomplete, truths left half-told, and justice always felt just out of reach. So, at 42, I made the decision to leave my job behind and pursue something I had always wanted: becoming a private detective.
My family didn’t take it well. They didn’t understand. My husband, tired of the woman I had become, found an easy excuse to leave me for a younger woman with shinier hair and fewer opinions. And my daughter? She disowned me. To her, a private detective was far beneath the prestige of being a journalist.
It hurt, more than I cared to admit. But as the days went by, and my new career seemed to go nowhere, I began to question if they were right. I hadn’t had a single new client in nearly three months. My debts were piling up, and worse, no one seemed to take me seriously.
Being a female detective in a male-dominated field meant that people didn’t think I could handle the tough cases. They thought women like me were too soft, too emotional—like intuition and patience didn’t matter.
And then, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, I heard a hesitant knock on the door.
I straightened up, quickly tossing the bills into the drawer and smoothing my hair.
“Come in!” I called.
The door creaked open slowly. A young girl, no older than fifteen, stepped inside. She hesitated in the doorway, her eyes flicking nervously around the room. Her clothes were too small, and her sweater was torn at the sleeves, like it had been hastily cut off.
“How can I help you?” I asked, gesturing to the chair in front of my desk.
The girl shuffled in, sitting down carefully. Her long, tangled hair fell into her face, and she pushed it away, almost as if she was doing it out of habit, not thought. There was something in her demeanor that made me think she had no one to teach her how to care for herself.
“My name is Emily,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I’m an orphan. I need your help to find my mother.”
My heart skipped a beat. She didn’t look like an orphan. She looked like a girl who had been forgotten, lost.
I studied her face, trying to make sense of her. She looked so young, and yet there was something in her eyes—something raw—that told me she had seen and felt more than most people her age.
“Your mother gave you up?” I asked gently.
She nodded, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Yes. I don’t know anything about her—her name, what she looks like. I don’t know anything. All I know is that I want to find her. I just want to know why she left me.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the stomach. No child should feel unwanted. No child should have to carry the burden of wondering why they weren’t enough.
“I’ll need something to go on,” I said, reaching for my notebook.
Emily straightened up, like she had been waiting for this moment. “I was born in this town,” she said. “I’ve never lived anywhere else. My birthday is February 15, 2009.”
I wrote it down. Her date of birth, the one piece of information she had.
“Is that enough?” she asked, her fingers nervously tugging at the edge of her sleeve.
“I’ll do everything I can,” I promised, looking her straight in the eyes.
She pulled out a few crumpled bills from her pocket. “I don’t have much, but I want to pay you something.”
It wasn’t nearly enough, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t take money from her—she was just a kid, after all.
“If I find your mother, then you can pay me,” I said.
She blinked, and a tear escaped down her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She stood up, ready to leave, but paused. “How can I find you?” she asked.
I grabbed a pen. “Just write down the address where I can reach you.”
She scribbled it down on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “My foster home. I’ll be there.”
I nodded, and she left as quickly as she came.
The next morning, I was up before the sun. There wasn’t time to waste. Emily’s case felt different—personal, somehow. Even though I knew I wouldn’t make a dime from it, I couldn’t help but feel that, for the first time in a long time, I had a real purpose again.
I headed straight for the hospital. Our small town had only one, so the records were easy to track down. If Emily’s mother had given birth here, the information would be in the system.
I had one advantage—my old connections. From my journalism days, I knew exactly who to talk to. Camilla, a nurse who had worked there for years, had been a source on a story I’d covered about harassment in hospitals. Since then, we had become friends.
As soon as she saw me, she put down her clipboard and flashed me a grin.
“Sara!” she exclaimed, pulling me into a hug. “What brings you here? Please don’t say trouble.”
“I need a favor,” I said, stepping back.
Camilla raised an eyebrow. “I knew it. You never just stop by to say hi.”
I smirked. “You were at my house for dinner last week.”
“Fine, fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What do you need?”
“Birth records. February 15, 2009.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “That’s specific. Should I be worried?”
“No trouble,” I assured her. “I just need to find a name.”
Camilla folded her arms. “I’ll help, but you’ve got to be quick.”
“I promise,” I said. “The baby was probably given up for adoption, but I need to know who the mother is.”
She hesitated, her face serious. “Sara, you know I can’t just hand you confidential records.”
“Please,” I begged. “Just a quick look. No one will even notice.”
She sighed but nodded. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
I followed her down the narrow hall to the hospital archives. The air was thick with dust and old paper. Camilla pulled out a large folder labeled “2009 – Abandoned Newborns.”
“Be quick,” she whispered.
I flipped through the pages, my heart pounding in my chest. I reached February 15. There it was—Emily’s mother’s name. My stomach dropped.
I couldn’t believe what I saw. This wasn’t possible.
I shoved the file back, barely able to breathe, and hurried out of the room.
Camilla was standing by the door, her brow furrowed. “Sara, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?”
“I’ll explain later,” I muttered. “I need air.”
I rushed outside, feeling like I was suffocating. I had to get to Emily’s mother. I had to see this through, even if it was harder than I ever imagined.
When I stood in front of the door of the house, I felt the weight of everything. My hands were numb. I didn’t know if I could do it.
But I had to.
I rang the doorbell.
The door opened. And there she was. Meredith.
Her eyes widened in shock. “Mom?” she whispered, almost breathless.
I swallowed hard. “Hi.”
Her face drained of color. “What are you doing here? I told you—I don’t want to see you.”
I met her gaze, trying to steady my nerves. “I wouldn’t have come if this were about me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Then why are you here?”
“For your daughter,” I said, my voice firm.
Meredith took a shaky step back. Her eyes filled with tears, and she stepped aside, letting me in without a word.
We sat in her small kitchen, and the silence between us was heavy. It felt like years had passed since I had last seen her. I didn’t know what to say, but I had to try.
“Her name is Emily,” I said. “She never got adopted. She’s been in foster care. She came to me because she wants to find you.”
Meredith squeezed her hands together, her voice trembling. “Please stop,” she whispered. “I can’t take it.”
“I know it’s hard,” I said, “but you owe it to her to face this.”
Meredith closed her eyes. “I regret it every day. I was young. I thought she’d be better off without me.”
“You were a child yourself,” I said. “But how could you hide it? How did your father and I not know?”
“I wore loose clothes,” she said softly. “My belly wasn’t big. I planned to give birth in another town, but you and Dad were gone when it happened. It worked out.”
“Tell her I couldn’t be found,” Meredith added suddenly.
“Why?” I asked. “Why wouldn’t you tell her?”
“I’m afraid she’ll hate me,” she said, her voice breaking.
I let her words sink in. “Maybe she’ll be angry. But she deserves to know the truth. She wants to understand where she came from. You owe her that.”
Meredith wiped her eyes, nodding. “I don’t know if I can face her.”
I put my hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just be honest.”
She nodded slowly, tears still in her eyes. “I want to see her.”
“I have her address,” I said, “Let’s go.”
The drive was silent. Meredith was quiet, her fingers tightly gripping her lap. When we arrived, she didn’t move.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked, her voice fragile.
I shook my head. “This is between you and Emily.”
She looked down at the steering wheel. “I regret cutting you out. I was ashamed.”
“I’m your mother,” I said softly. “I’ll always love you.”
A moment later, she stepped out of the car, walked to the door, and knocked.
Emily opened the door. They stood there, staring at each other for a long moment.
Then, Meredith breathed in deeply, and Emily took a step forward.
They talked. They cried.
And then, Emily wrapped her arms around her mother.
