When I left journalism to become a private detective, my family disowned me. They saw it as a disgrace, and I started to question if they were right. With no clients and mounting debt, I was losing hope—until a fifteen-year-old girl walked into my office.
I was sitting in my small office, sorting through a pile of bills. I had once been a successful journalist, but the unfinished stories and unfulfilled justice pushed me to change careers. My family wasn’t happy. My husband left for a younger woman, and my daughter cut me out, deeming my new job disgraceful. Yet, the longer I worked as a detective, the more I wondered if they were right. No one trusted a female private investigator.
Then Emily showed up. She was an orphan, her clothes too small, her hair messy and neglected. Her eyes, however, told me she was determined. “I need your help to find my mother,” she said. “I don’t know anything about her, not even her name.”
She was fifteen now, and after years in foster care, she wanted to find her birth mother. I promised to help. She handed me a few crumpled bills and told me where to find her in the foster home.
The next day, I started investigating. My first stop was the hospital, where Emily had been born. Thanks to my old journalism connections, I was able to get in touch with Camilla, a nurse I knew. She agreed to help and gave me access to the abandoned newborns records from 2009. There it was—Emily’s mother’s name. I couldn’t believe it.
I went to the address listed, hesitant to ring the doorbell. When Meredith opened the door, I could see the shock on her face. “Mom?” Emily’s voice trembled.
I explained that I wasn’t there for me but for her daughter, Emily. Meredith’s face turned pale, and she stepped aside, letting me in. She admitted to abandoning Emily as a baby, thinking it was for the best, but now she regretted it deeply. She had been a scared teenager herself, not knowing how to face her parents or the world.
Meredith tearfully confessed she couldn’t face Emily after all these years, fearing rejection. But I urged her, “She just wants answers. You owe her that.” After a long silence, Meredith agreed to meet Emily.
When we arrived at the foster home, Meredith sat still, too afraid to move. “Aren’t you coming?” I asked. “This is between you two,” I replied, giving her the space to face her daughter.
Meredith stepped out and rang the doorbell. When Emily answered, the two stared at each other, then hugged. They cried, and for the first time, they were together. Emily had found her mother, and Meredith found the courage to make things right.