It was just supposed to be a normal morning. I was on my way to pick up fresh rolls for my mom when I spotted something on the sidewalk—a busted-up phone, screen shattered, looking like it had been run over.
I don’t know why I picked it up. Maybe because I work with tech and figured I could fix it. Maybe just curiosity. Either way, I slipped it into my pocket and went on with my day.
Later, after breakfast, I pulled out the SIM card and slid it into my own phone. There were a few saved contacts, but one stood out—“Daughter.”
I hesitated, then tapped the call button.
“Mom?” a little girl’s voice answered. “Is that you?”
My stomach dropped. “I’m not your mom,” I said carefully. “Who is this?”
The girl’s voice got quiet. “Where’s Mom?”
I swallowed. “I—I don’t know. I found this phone. What’s your name?”
“Julie.” Her voice shook. “My mom went to the store yesterday and didn’t come back.”
I sat up straighter. “Julie, is there anyone with you? Your dad? Grandma?”
“No,” she whispered. “It’s just me.”
Something about her voice made my heart squeeze.
“Where do you live?” I asked.
She gave me an address: Independence Street, Building Seven, Apartment 18.
I was already grabbing my keys when she added, “My legs don’t work, so I can’t go anywhere.”
I froze. “What do you mean?”
“I use a wheelchair,” she said softly. “But there’s no one here to help me.”
I didn’t even think. I just said, “Julie, hold tight. I’m coming.”
Fifteen minutes later, I knocked on her door. It creaked open, and there she was—a tiny girl in a wheelchair, looking up at me with wide, tired eyes.
“Will you find my mom?” she asked, tears threatening to spill.
I had no idea what I was stepping into. But I knew one thing—there was no turning back now.
Julie let me inside, and I was hit by the heavy stillness of the apartment. There was no sign of food being prepared, no sounds of a TV humming in the background—just quiet, unsettling quiet.
“Do you have any family nearby?” I asked as I glanced around.
She shook her head. “It’s just me and Mom.”
I crouched down. “When was the last time you heard from her?”
“Yesterday morning. She said she was going to buy milk.”
My mind raced. A full day missing. A broken phone. Something wasn’t right.
“Did she take her purse? Keys?” I asked.
Julie nodded, gripping the arms of her wheelchair. “But she always comes back.”
I checked my phone, wondering if I should call the police. But before I could, a sharp knock on the door made Julie flinch.
I exchanged a look with her, then slowly moved to the door. When I opened it, a woman in her forties stood there, wearing a housecoat and a concerned expression.
“You’re not Helen,” she said, eyeing me warily.
“I—uh—no. I found her phone,” I explained. “Are you a neighbor?”
She nodded. “I’m Mrs. Beck. I live across the hall. Have you seen Helen?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you,” I admitted. “She went out yesterday and never came back.”
Mrs. Beck’s lips pressed together. “That’s not like her.” She turned to Julie. “Sweetheart, did she say where she was going?”
“The corner store,” Julie whispered.
I stood up. “Then that’s where I’m starting.”
Mrs. Beck nodded. “I’ll stay with Julie.”
The corner store wasn’t far, but my gut told me Helen never made it there. I showed the store clerk Helen’s picture—one I’d pulled from her phone before it died completely.
He scratched his head. “I think I saw her yesterday morning. But she left in a hurry. Some guy was talking to her outside.”
“What guy?” I asked.
“Didn’t recognize him. Mid-forties, kind of rough-looking.”
A chill ran down my spine. “Did she seem upset?”
The clerk hesitated. “Yeah, actually. She looked scared.”
I thanked him and stepped outside, my heart pounding. Something was definitely wrong.
I went to the nearest police station and reported her missing. I handed over her phone and mentioned the man she was last seen with. The officer took notes but didn’t seem in a rush.
“Adults go missing all the time,” he said. “Give it a day or two.”
“She has a daughter alone in an apartment,” I snapped. “She wouldn’t just leave.”
The officer sighed. “We’ll look into it.”
Frustrated, I left and returned to Julie’s apartment. Mrs. Beck had made her some soup, but she barely touched it.
“Did you find her?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Not yet. But I will.”
That night, I barely slept. Something wasn’t sitting right. Helen’s phone was smashed—why? And who was the man outside the store?
The next morning, I went back to the store. I asked around, and a guy working at the gas station next door mentioned seeing Helen getting into a car with the man.
“She didn’t look happy about it,” he added.
“Did you get a license plate?”
He shook his head. “But it was a blue sedan.”
I took that information back to the police. This time, they took me seriously. They found security footage showing the car’s plate, and a quick search led them to a man with a record—Jason Miller.
When officers checked his address, they found Helen.
She was shaken but alive.
Turns out, Jason was an ex-boyfriend she’d left years ago. He’d found her, threatened her, and forced her into his car. Her phone must have fallen and been run over when she struggled to get away. He kept her locked in his apartment, but thankfully, she was now safe.
When Helen was finally reunited with Julie, the little girl broke down in sobs. Helen hugged her like she’d never let go again.
As I stood by the door, watching, Helen looked at me with tears in her eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “Just take care of her.”
Julie wheeled over and took my hand. “Thank you for finding my mom.”
In that moment, I realized something: sometimes, doing the right thing starts with something small. Like picking up a broken phone.
If this story touched you, share it. You never know when a small act might change someone’s life.
