I was hired to find a man’s biological mother—a straightforward case, or so I thought. As I investigated, unexpected connections emerged, leading to a shocking discovery. Some answers provided closure, but others revealed truths better left buried.
It had been months since I’d last worked, and my office was filled with overdue bills. I was struggling to get by as a private detective, far from the glamorous life I’d imagined. My meals consisted mostly of instant noodles.
One day, as I was idly building a house of cards on my desk, a knock interrupted me. It was a man, Matt, looking nervously around my office. He explained he wanted to find his birth mother, someone he never knew after she had passed away two years ago.
I studied his face. His jaw was tight, his gaze locked on his hands.
“You want to find your biological mother,” I said.
He nodded, swallowing hard.
“Do you have anything to go on?”
“Only the city where I was born and my birthdate.”
I reached for a notepad. “What city?”
He told me, and I wrote it down. To my surprise, we were from the same town.
“Date of birth?”
“November 19, 1987.”
My pen stopped. My stomach twisted. That was my birthday too.
I forced my hand to move, writing it down.
“You’ll take the case?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. I needed the money. But this was personal.
“Thank you,” he whispered, standing.
“One last thing,” I said as he reached for the door.
He turned.
“How did you find me?”
“A girl from work. Stacy.”
I smiled. Stacy still had my back.
“That’s all,” I said.
Matt nodded and left.
The very next day, I stood in the hometown, staring at the familiar streets. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp pavement.
The place hadn’t changed much. Old brick buildings, faded signs, and quiet roads. It felt strange to be back.
I hadn’t taken this case just for the money. Well, not only for the money. This was personal. Too personal. I was born here. Same city. Same date.
I had no idea what had happened to my mother. No records. No traces. Nothing.
I had spent my childhood bouncing between foster homes, never knowing why she left me.
I convinced myself she didn’t want me. That was easier than searching and finding out I was right.
But Matt wanted answers. And that made me wonder if I did too.
I arrived at the hospital where he was born. The building was old, and the brickwork chipped in places. I approached the records desk.
A middle-aged nurse glanced up. Her reading glasses sat low on her nose. She had tired eyes and a sharp gaze.
“Can I help you?” she asked, arms crossed.
“I need to check some old records,” I said. “Shouldn’t take long.”
She shook her head. “Not possible. Those files are restricted.”
I leaned on the counter. “Look, I’m trying to help someone find his birth mother. It’s important.”
Her lips pressed together. “Rules are rules.”
I sighed, lowering my voice. “I get it. But if I don’t find what I need here, I’ll have to come back with more questions. Maybe even legal ones. That’ll be a headache for both of us.”
She exhaled, tapping her fingers on the desk. “Fine. Two hours. No more.”
Bingo.
I flipped through the birth records for November 1987. Page after page. Nothing. No boys were born on the 19th.
I scanned the room, spotting a locked cabinet. Instinct kicked in. I had to check. The lock was old, so it didn’t take much to break it.
Inside, I found a file: Newborns Who Were Abandoned.
Two boys. Matt. And me.
Their mothers’ names were both Carla. One had a last name. One didn’t have any information except the name.
I snapped photos of the records, shoved my phone into my pocket, and left.
Sitting in my car, I typed the woman’s full name into my laptop. She still lived here.
I punched the address into my GPS and started driving.
Standing outside her house, I felt my stomach twist. My hands clenched into fists before I forced them open. My chest felt tight.
What if she was my mother? What if she wasn’t? I wasn’t sure which answer scared me more.
I took a breath and rang the doorbell. A few seconds passed. The door opened.
A woman stood before me. Something about her struck me. Her red hair, though faded, reminded me of my own when I was younger. The same dimples, the same shape of the nose.
My throat dried. I wasn’t ready for this.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice cautious.
“Are you Carla?” My voice came out rough.
“That’s right,” she said, studying my face.
I swallowed hard. “More than 30 years ago, you gave birth to a baby boy. November 19, 1987. You gave him up at the hospital.”
Her lips parted slightly. She gripped the doorframe as if steadying herself.
“How do you…?” She trailed off, her voice shaking.
She stepped aside. “Come inside.”
I followed her through a narrow hallway. The walls were covered in framed photos, all of her and the same man. No children and no signs of a family beyond the two of them.
She led me to the kitchen. The room smelled like coffee. She gestured to a chair. I sat.
She sat across from me, hands folded on the table.
“I’m a private detective,” I said. “I was hired to find you.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “By who?”
I hesitated. I wanted to ask her why she had left me. Why she hadn’t looked for me. Why I had spent my life wondering about someone who never wondered about me.
Then, my eyes caught something — a birthmark on her wrist. A memory of Matt flashed in my head. His hands, always rubbing together. That same birthmark.
My stomach dropped. I exhaled slowly. “A man named Matt hired me. He’s your son. He wanted to find you.”
Carla covered her mouth with both hands. Tears filled her eyes.
“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered. “I was young. I was scared. I made the worst decision of my life.” Her voice broke. “I’ve blamed myself every day. And I never had more children. Maybe I didn’t deserve to.”
I gripped the edge of the table. “He wants to find you,” I said, my voice steady. “Don’t abandon him again.”
Her shoulders shook as she sobbed. She nodded, pressing her hands against her face.
“Thank you,” she managed to say between quiet cries.
I stood. She followed. At the door, I hesitated.
“One more thing,” I said, turning back.
She wiped her eyes. “Yes?”
“Do you remember a woman who gave birth the same day as you? Her name was Carla too.”
Her lips trembled into a sad smile.
“Yes,” she said. “I picked her up on my way to the hospital. She was already in labor but had no car.” Her eyes softened as she looked at me. “She had a baby boy too. That was you, wasn’t it? You have her eyes.”
A lump formed in my throat.
“You don’t know what happened to her, do you?” I asked. “There were no records of her last name.”
Carla sighed. “Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice was gentle. “She died in childbirth. It happened too fast. They never even got her information.”
I sucked in a sharp breath.
“I don’t know much — just what she told me on the way.,” she continued. “She wasn’t from here. Just passing through. You came early. She was terrified. But she wanted you so much. She only thought about you.”
My hands trembled. Tears blurred my vision.
“No one ever found her family,” Carla said softly. “They buried her here. Just a few blocks away. Her grave only has her first name and the date.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
“I’ll give Matt your address,” I finally said. “And… thank you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I stepped outside.
As I got into the car, I sent Matt his mother’s address.
Then, I drove straight to the cemetery and found my mother’s grave, a simple stone with her first name and the date.
I traced the letters with my fingers, wondering who she had been. I had spent my life believing she abandoned me, but now I knew the truth.
She had wanted me. She had fought for me. She just never got the chance.
I didn’t know how many hours had passed. The air grew colder, but I couldn’t leave.
That night, as I drove past Carla’s house, I saw Matt at the door. She pulled him into a tight hug. Relief washed over me. At least I had given someone back their family.
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