I was hired to find a man’s birth mother—seemed simple enough. But as I dug deeper, strange coincidences led me somewhere unexpected. Some answers gave closure, while others opened doors better left shut.
Sitting in my office with overdue rent bills, I wondered what had happened to my detective career. It had been months since my last case, and I could barely afford dinner.
Then Matt walked in, nervous but determined. He needed help finding his biological mother, the one who gave him up. His only clues: the city he was born in and his birthdate—November 19, 1987. My stomach dropped. That was my birthday too.
I agreed to take the case, knowing it was personal.
The next day, back in my hometown, I dug into hospital records, and found something unexpected: both Matt and I were listed as abandoned babies, born on the same day. I found a woman named Carla who had given birth that day. Could she be my mother?
I tracked her down, and after a tense conversation, I learned the truth. She had abandoned me, but not by choice. She was young, scared, and never had more children. She had spent her life regretting it.
Then she told me something that made my heart stop—there had been another woman, also named Carla, who gave birth the same day and died in childbirth. That woman was my real mother. She had wanted me, but never got the chance to raise me.
I gave Matt the information he wanted, and as I visited my mother’s grave, I finally understood. She had fought for me.
That night, I drove past Carla’s house. Matt was there, reunited with her. I had given someone back their family. And in the process, I found my own answers.