Besides, it wasn’t like I had much of a social life. Dating had never come easy—between my introverted nature and my lack of conventionally good looks, I had given up on romance long ago. Instead, I poured myself into my programming work, spending my days coding and my nights tinkering with gadgets.
That morning, as I strolled toward the bakery, my foot brushed against something hard. I glanced down and saw it—a phone, cracked and battered, half-buried in the grass by the curb.
I bent down, picking it up, turning it over in my hands. The screen was shattered, the casing dented, the back partially peeled off, as if it had been run over. It wasn’t worth much—an older keypad model, the kind used by people who couldn’t afford anything better.
Maybe I can fix it, I thought.
I slipped it into my pocket, grabbed the fresh rolls, and headed home.
Over breakfast, the phone nagged at the back of my mind. Finally, curiosity got the best of me. I pulled out the SIM card and slid it into an old backup phone.
A list of contacts popped up.
Hospitals. Schools. Emergency services.
And one number saved as “Daughter.”
A strange tightness gripped my chest. Who had lost this phone? And why did it seem like the only person they truly cared about was their daughter?
Before I could stop myself, I pressed call.
The phone rang once. Twice.
Then, a small voice—hopeful, trembling.
“Mom?”
My breath caught. “I—no, I’m not your mom. I found this phone, and—”
“Where is she?” The girl’s voice wavered.
Something in my gut twisted. “I don’t know. I just found the phone this morning. What’s your name?”
“Julie,” she whispered. “Mom went to the store yesterday… but she never came back.”
A cold feeling spread through me. “Julie, is there anyone else with you? Your dad? A neighbor?”
“I don’t have a dad,” she said softly. “Or a grandma. Just Mom.”
I swallowed. “Where do you live?”
“Independence Street. Building seven. Apartment eighteen.”
My grip on the phone tightened. “Julie, are you okay? Are you alone right now?”
“Yes.” A pause. Then, in a small, fragile voice, “I can’t leave.”
My stomach dropped. “Why not?”
“I’m in a wheelchair,” she said simply. “And it’s hard to move without my mom.”
I was already standing. “Julie, listen to me. My name is Alan. I’m coming to you, okay? You’re not alone.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
I hung up and turned to my mother. She had been listening the entire time.
“You’re not going alone,” she said, already grabbing her coat.
We took a cab across town, arriving at the run-down apartment complex in under fifteen minutes. Flickering hallway lights, peeling paint, a mailbox overflowing with unpaid bills—this wasn’t just neglect. This was survival.
I knocked on Apartment 18.
A soft, hesitant voice called through the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s Alan. I spoke to you on the phone.”
The door creaked open, revealing a frail little girl, no older than six or seven, sitting in a worn wheelchair. Her dark eyes were wide with exhaustion, her tangled hair falling around her pale face.
“Will you find my mom?” she asked, her lower lip trembling.
My chest ached.
“I promise,” I said.
Julie hadn’t eaten since the night before. My mother quickly set to work in the tiny kitchen, making her a warm meal while I searched online for any news of a missing woman.
And then I found it.
A woman had been hit by a car last night. Parkova Street. Critical condition.
I called the hospital, heart pounding.
“Yes,” the nurse confirmed. “She was admitted last night. She’s stable now but unconscious. We weren’t able to reach any family.”
I exhaled sharply. “I’m coming.”
We left Julie in the care of our neighbor, Maureen, before rushing to the hospital.
The nurse hesitated but eventually led us to a quiet room.
“She just regained consciousness,” she said. “She’s weak, but she wants to see you.”
Victoria—the woman from the accident—lay pale and bruised in the hospital bed, her breath shallow.
“Who…?” she rasped.
“My name is Alan. I found your phone.” I paused. “Julie is safe. She’s waiting for you.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Julie…” Her voice broke. “Is she okay?”
“She’s scared, but she’s okay.”
Victoria turned away, guilt and relief washing over her face.
I pulled up a chair. “Victoria, what happened?”
She swallowed. “I was hit on my way to get medicine for Julie. She has a condition. I’ve been saving for surgery, but it’s impossible. I have no family, no support. It’s just been us for as long as I can remember.”
Her voice shook as she continued. “I divorced Julie’s father when he became abusive. He left us with nothing. His family refused to help. I was working as much as I could, trying to keep us afloat.”
I clenched my jaw. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Her gaze lifted, wary but hopeful.
Right then, I made a decision.
“I can help. Julie deserves a chance.”
Through a network of friends and donors, I arranged for Julie’s surgery. It took months, but one afternoon, I stood beside her as she took her first steps.
She wobbled, gripping my hand tightly, but she was walking.
Victoria, fully recovered, stood beside me, tears streaming down her face.
She turned to me, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to.”
Over time, our bond deepened—not just with Julie, but with her.
And then one day, I realized something.
I hadn’t just saved a little girl.
I had found my family.
Years later, as I held my wife’s hand and watched our daughter run across the yard, I thought back to that broken phone.
I never expected to have a family.
But fate had other plans.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.