When I decided to leave my successful journalism career and become a private detective, my family turned their backs on me. They couldn’t understand my choice. To them, it was a disgrace. I started to doubt myself. Maybe they were right. I had no clients, no money, just endless regrets. But then one day, everything changed when a teenage girl walked into my office looking for her mother. Her case would change my life forever.
I was sitting in my small, dimly lit office, sifting through the usual pile of bills, advertisements, and more bills. The constant reminder that things weren’t going well. The bills kept piling up, and I had no idea how I was going to make ends meet.
I leaned back in my chair, letting out a deep sigh, and covered my face with my hands. My mind wandered back to the life I had left behind. I used to be a journalist—a successful one, or so I thought. But something always felt missing.
The stories were never complete. The truth was half-told, and justice was always just out of reach. So, at 42, I decided to leave it all behind and pursue something I had always wanted to do—become a private detective.
Unfortunately, my family didn’t support me. They tried to talk me out of it, but when they saw I was determined, they completely cut ties with me. My husband saw my career change as a reason to leave me for a younger woman.
Someone with shinier hair, fewer wrinkles, and, from what I gathered, fewer opinions. My daughter? She couldn’t have been more disappointed. She thought becoming a private detective was disgraceful—especially when compared to the “prestige” of journalism.
It hurt more than I wanted to admit. But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, I started to question myself. Was I wrong? I hadn’t had a single new client in nearly three months. Bills kept coming, and money was running out fast.
And the worst part was, no one took me seriously. People didn’t believe a woman could be a good private investigator. They assumed men were better—stronger, sharper, tougher. As if intuition, patience, and persistence didn’t matter. But I refused to give up.
Then one day, I heard a hesitant knock at the door.
I straightened up, quickly shoving the pile of bills into a drawer and smoothing my hair. “Come in!” I called out, trying to sound confident, even though my heart was racing.
The door creaked open slowly. A girl, no older than fifteen, stepped inside. She hesitated for a moment, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Her clothes were too small—cheap, second-hand. The sleeves of her sweater were jagged, as if they had been cut off. She looked lost, uncertain.
“How can I help you?” I asked, motioning to the empty chair across from my desk.
She sat down carefully, pulling her sleeves over her hands, her long, unkempt hair constantly falling into her face. She brushed it away absentmindedly, over and over again. It was clear to me—this girl didn’t have a mother.
I had taught my daughter how to braid her hair when she was six. This girl had no idea what to do with hers.
“My name is Emily,” she said, her voice soft yet determined. “I’m an orphan. I need your help to find my mother.”
I studied her face, trying to read her emotions. She was nervous, but there was something else behind her eyes—something strong. Something unyielding.
“She gave you up?” I asked gently, not wanting to push too hard.
Emily nodded, her voice catching slightly. “Yes. I don’t know anything about her. Not her name, not what she looks like. Nothing.”
She swallowed hard. “I’m fifteen now. No one’s going to adopt me at this point. But I want to find her. I just… I just need to see her. I need to understand why she left me.”
Her words hit me like a punch in the stomach. No child should ever feel unwanted. No child should have to wonder why they weren’t enough.
“I’ll need something to go on,” I said, trying to focus.
Emily sat up straighter, determination in her eyes. “I was born in this town. I’ve never moved, never been sent anywhere else.” She took a deep breath, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “My birthday is February 15, 2009.”
I quickly jotted down the information in my notebook.
“Is that enough?” she asked, her fingers tightening around the edge of her sweater.
“I’ll do everything I can,” I promised, feeling a sudden rush of purpose.
She hesitated, then pulled out a few crumpled bills from her pocket. “I have some money, but not much.”
I glanced at the small amount in her hand. It wasn’t nearly enough to cover my fees, but I didn’t care. It wasn’t about money.
“If I find her,” I said, “then you can pay me.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, her lips trembling.
She stood up to leave, but I stopped her. “Wait. How can I find you?”
Emily scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “My foster home. I’ll be there.”
I nodded, and she left.
The next morning, I didn’t waste any time. It had been far too long since I’d worked on a real case. Even though I knew I wouldn’t get paid for this one, I couldn’t turn my back on Emily. I had to help her.
The first place I went was the hospital. Our town had only one, which made things easier.
If Emily’s mother had given birth there, the records would be kept inside.
One of the advantages of my old job as a journalist was the connections I had. And the hospital? I knew exactly who to talk to.
Camilla, a nurse, had been a source for one of my old stories, and over time, we became friends. When she saw me, she immediately put down her clipboard and grinned.
“Sara!” she said, pulling me into a quick hug. “What brings you here? Please don’t say trouble.”
I smiled faintly. “I need your help.”
Camilla raised an eyebrow. “Of course you do. You never just stop by for a friendly visit, do you?”
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.”
She blinked, clearly surprised. “That’s specific. Should I be worried?”
I shook my head. “Nothing illegal. I just need to find a name.”
Camilla folded her arms. “That’s doable, but make it fast.”
I hesitated for a moment. “The baby was given up, probably in secret.”
Her expression changed. “Sara, you know I can’t just hand you confidential records.”
“Please,” I said, my voice pleading. “Just a quick look. No one will even notice.”
Camilla sighed, clearly reluctant. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I owe you.”
She rolled her eyes. “You owe me for life.”
Camilla led me through a narrow hallway to the hospital archives, where the air smelled of dust and old paper. She pulled out a thick folder labeled “2009 – Abandoned Newborns” and handed it to me.
“Be quick,” she whispered.
I opened the folder, my heart racing as I flipped through the pages. Then, my fingers froze. February 15. My eyes locked onto the mother’s name. My breath caught in my throat.
No. This couldn’t be real.
I shoved the file back into her hands and hurried out of the room.
“Sara, you’re as pale as a ghost,” Camilla called after me, concern in her voice.
“I’ll explain later,” I muttered, pushing past her. I needed air.
I stood outside the house I had never seen before. My hands shook as I stared at the door. This was the hardest case of my career. Too personal. Too close.
I took a deep breath and reached for the doorbell. My hand hovered for a moment. I could still turn around, pretend I never came. But I couldn’t. Not for Emily.
I pressed the button. The chime echoed through the house. Footsteps approached.
The door swung open, and I saw her.
Her face paled as she stared at me. “Mom?”
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “Hi.”
Meredith blinked in shock, her fingers 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, my voice steady. “I wouldn’t have come if this were about me.”
Her eyes narrowed, confusion replacing the shock. “Then why are you here?”
I took a deep breath. “For your daughter.”
The color drained from her face. Her body tensed. “How… how did you—” She couldn’t finish.
Her breath hitched, and before I knew it, her tears spilled over. She stepped aside and motioned for me to enter.
The kitchen was small but neat. Meredith moved stiffly, as though unsure of what to do next. She pulled out a chair and sat down.
I stood for a moment, gathering my thoughts, then sat across from her. Silence stretched between us.
“Her name is Emily, if you’re wondering,” I said, breaking the silence. “No one ever adopted her. She’s been living with foster families. She came to me to find her mother, but I never imagined—”
Meredith squeezed her hands together, her voice barely a whisper. “Please stop.”
I waited, giving her space.
“I have 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 out of nowhere to remind me of what a terrible person I am.”
“You’re not terrible,” I said softly. “You were a child when she was born. But I don’t understand how you hid it. How did your father and I not know?”
“I wore loose clothes. My belly wasn’t that big,” she explained, her voice distant. “And I planned to give birth in another town. But you and Dad went abroad for work, and it just worked out.”
Meredith’s voice dropped even lower. “Tell her I couldn’t be found.”
“Why?” I asked, confused. “Meredith, I’m a mother too. I know how much it hurts to lose a child. Nothing is worse than that.”
She looked down, her voice shaking. “How can I face her? She’ll hate me.”
I let her words hang in the air for a moment. “Maybe,” I admitted. “But she wants to find you. That means something.”
Meredith wiped her eyes. “What if she doesn’t want me?”
“She wants answers,” I said. “She wants to know where she came from. You owe her that.”
Meredith looked away, and I could feel the resentment bubbling beneath the surface. But I reminded myself—this wasn’t about us. It was about Emily.
“I have her address,” I said. “Do you want to see her?”
Meredith hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded.
We drove in silence, the streetlights flickering as we passed. When we reached the house, Meredith didn’t move. Her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked, her voice quiet.
I shook my head. “This is between you two.”
Meredith looked down, her voice breaking. “Mom… I regret cutting you out. I was ashamed.”
I turned to her. “You are my daughter. No matter what, I will always love you.”
Her face crumpled, and she reached for me. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her just like I did when she was little.
“What you’re doing is important,” she whispered. “People like Emily need you.”
I smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
Then she stepped out of the car, walked to the door, and knocked.
A moment later, Emily appeared. They stood there, staring at each other. Then Meredith took a deep breath, and Emily took a step forward.
They spoke. They cried. And then Emily wrapped her arms around her mother.
It was a reunion filled with pain, healing, and hope. And I realized, this is why I became a private detective. Not for the money. Not for the fame. But for moments like these.
