My family turned their backs on me when I left my career in journalism to become a private detective. They thought I was making a huge mistake, and part of me started to wonder if they were right. I was alone, without clients, with no money and a lot of regrets. But one day, everything changed when a teenage girl walked into my office looking for her mother.
It was a quiet day in my office, the kind of day that made me feel like nothing was ever going to change. I was sitting at my desk, sorting through the usual pile of bills, advertisements, and more bills. It seemed like that was all I ever got—bills. I sighed heavily, rubbing my face with my hands as I set the letters aside.
I used to be a journalist. A successful one, too. But no matter how much I achieved, I felt something was missing. The stories were never fully told, the truths always felt incomplete, and justice always seemed to be out of reach. So, at 42, I made a bold decision to leave it all behind and become a private detective. It was something I had always wanted to do.
But my family didn’t support me. They tried to talk me out of it, but when they realized I was determined, they cut me off completely. My husband, well, he found a reason to leave me for a younger woman—one with less experience, fewer wrinkles, and, I imagine, fewer opinions. And my daughter? She couldn’t bear to be around me. She thought being a private detective was disgraceful, especially after the glory of my journalism career.
It hurt. It really did. But as the days went on, I began to question whether they were right. I hadn’t had a new case in nearly three months, and the bills were piling up. People didn’t seem to believe in female detectives. Everyone thought men were better at solving cases, stronger, sharper, tougher. As if patience, intuition, and determination didn’t matter.
Then, one afternoon, something unexpected happened. I heard a soft knock at the door. I quickly sat up, trying to tidy up my messy desk. I shoved the pile of bills into a drawer and called out, “Come in!”
The door creaked open slowly, and in stepped a girl, maybe 15 years old. She hesitated at the threshold, her clothes too small, second-hand, and patched. Her sweater sleeves were uneven, like someone had roughly cut them off.
I gestured to the chair across from me. “How can I help you?”
She took a seat, her hands tightly gripping her sweater as her long hair, messy and unkempt, kept falling into her face. She brushed it away repeatedly, not really noticing.
I could tell right away that this girl didn’t have a mother. I’d raised my own daughter, taught her how to braid her hair when she was young. But this girl? She had no idea what to do with hers.
“My name is Emily,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I’m an orphan. I need your help to find my mother.”
Her words hit me harder than I expected. I studied her face. She was scared, but her eyes had a fire in them.
“She gave you up?” I asked gently.
Emily nodded. “Yes. I don’t know anything about her. Not her name, not what she looks like, nothing.”
She swallowed hard, clearly fighting back tears. “I’m 15 now. No one is going to adopt me at this point. But I need to find her. I just want to see her. I need to know why she left me.”
Her voice cracked, and I felt a lump form in my throat. No child should have to ask themselves those questions. No child should feel like they weren’t enough.
“I’ll need something to go on,” I said, reaching for my notebook.
Emily sat up straighter, determination flooding her face. “I was born here in town. I’ve never lived anywhere else.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “My birthday is February 15, 2009.”
I wrote it down quickly.
“Is that enough?” she asked, her hands clutching her sleeves.
“I’ll do everything I can,” I said, looking at her with a reassuring smile.
Emily hesitated before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a few crumpled bills. “I don’t have much, but this is all I can give you right now.”
It wasn’t nearly enough for the work I’d need to do, but I wasn’t concerned about that.
“If I find her, then you can pay me,” I told her.
Her lips quivered. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She stood up to leave, and I quickly asked, “How can I find you?”
She scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “My foster home. I’ll be there.”
I nodded, and with one last look, she walked out of my office.
The next morning, I wasted no time. It had been a while since I’d worked on a real case, and despite knowing there would be no payment, I felt a surge of purpose. Emily’s case felt like the start of something important.
I made my way to the hospital, the only one in town, where Emily had likely been born. With my connections from my journalism days, I knew exactly who to speak to—Camilla, a nurse I’d met while covering a story years ago. She’d been a reliable source back then, and we’d become friends.
As soon as Camilla saw me, she put down her clipboard and grinned. “Sara! What brings you here? Please tell me it’s not trouble again.”
“I need your help,” I said, leaning in a bit.
She raised an eyebrow. “Of course you do. You never just drop by to chat.”
I crossed my arms. “You were literally at my house for dinner last week.”
She smirked. “Fine, what do you need?”
“Birth records. February 15, 2009.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s specific. Should I be worried?”
“No,” I replied. “Nothing illegal. I just need to find a name.”
Camilla folded her arms and sighed. “You know I can’t just hand you confidential records, right?”
I gave her a pleading look. “Please, Camilla. Just a quick peek. No one will even know.”
She looked at me for a long moment, then sighed. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I owe you.”
She rolled her eyes. “You owe me for life.”
She led me through a narrow hallway to the hospital archives, where the air was thick with dust and old paper. She handed me a thick folder labeled “2009 – Abandoned Newborns” and whispered, “Be quick.”
I flipped through the pages with trembling fingers until I reached February 15. My heart skipped a beat as I found the name I was looking for.
No. This couldn’t be right.
I quickly shoved the file back and rushed out of the room, my heart racing.
Camilla stood by the door. “Sara, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?”
“I’ll explain later,” I muttered, needing to clear my head.
I stood outside a house I didn’t recognize, the air heavy around me. Emily’s case had become too personal. Too close.
I stood frozen in front of the door, my hands shaking. I could turn back now. But no. I couldn’t. Not for Emily.
I reached for the doorbell and pressed it. The chime echoed through the house. Footsteps approached.
The door swung open, and there she was.
Her face went pale. Her lips parted in shock. “Mom?”
My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard. “Hi.”
Her eyes widened, her hand gripping the doorframe. “What are you doing here? I thought I made it clear—I don’t want to see you.”
I met her gaze. “I wouldn’t have come if this were about me.”
Her eyes darkened. “Then why are you here?”
I took a deep breath, steeling myself. “For your daughter.”
Her face drained of color. Her body went stiff. “How… how did you—”
She couldn’t finish. Tears welled up in her eyes, and without another word, she stepped aside, allowing me to enter.
The kitchen was small and tidy, but there was tension in the air. Meredith sat down slowly, her body stiff, as though unsure of what to do next.
I stayed standing for a moment before sitting across from her. Silence filled the space between us. Finally, I spoke.
“Her name is Emily,” I said softly. “She’s been in foster care. She came to me because she wanted to find you. But I never imagined—”
Meredith squeezed her hands together. “Please,” she whispered. “Stop.”
I fell silent, waiting.
“I’ve regretted it my whole life,” she said, her voice cracking. “I tried to forget. I told myself it was for the best. That she’d have a better life without me. And now you show up to remind me of what a terrible person I am.”
“You’re not terrible,” I said gently. “You were just a kid when she was born. I don’t understand how you hid it, though. How did your father and I never know?”
“I wore loose clothes. My belly wasn’t that big,” she explained. “I planned to go to another town to give birth, but you and Dad went abroad right before it happened. So it all worked out.”
She suddenly looked up. “Tell her I couldn’t be found.”
“Why?” I asked. “Meredith, I’m a mother too. Losing a child… nothing is worse than that.”
She lowered her gaze. “How can I face her? She’ll hate me.”
I let her words sink in. “Maybe,” I said, “But she wants answers. She deserves to know where she came from. You owe her that.”
Meredith wiped her eyes, torn between guilt and fear. “What if she doesn’t want me?”
I stared at her, understanding her fear but knowing what needed to be done. “She wants answers. She wants to know the truth.”
Finally, Meredith nodded. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll go.”
We drove in silence, the lights flickering as we passed. When we arrived at the house, Meredith didn’t move.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked.
I shook my head. “This is between you two.”
Meredith looked at me, her voice trembling. “Mom, I regret cutting you out. I was ashamed.”
I reached out and squeezed her hand. “You’re my daughter. No matter what, I will always love you.”
Her face crumpled, and she hugged me tightly. “What you’re doing is important. People like Emily need you.”
I smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Thank you.”
With one last look at me, Meredith stepped out of the car. She walked up to the door, knocked, and waited.
A moment later, Emily appeared. They stared at each other, both unsure of what to say. Meredith took a deep breath, and Emily took a step forward. They spoke softly, tears falling.
Then, Emily reached out and wrapped her arms around her mother.
