I was hired to find a man’s birth mother — a routine case that seemed straightforward at first. But as I delved deeper, I stumbled upon strange coincidences that led me to an unexpected revelation. Some answers provide closure, while others open doors that are better left undisturbed.

In my dimly lit office, I sat there, overwhelmed by a pile of overdue rent bills. Their red reminder stamps stared back at me with judgment. Feeling the pressure, I rubbed my temples, despair washing over me.

It had been a while since my last client, and I began to question my decision to become a private detective. I once dreamed of solving big cases and living like the suave detectives in old movies, but reality couldn’t have been more different. Now, my main sustenance was instant noodles, a far cry from the glamorous meals I imagined.

As I sat there, trying to balance a card in my hands while daydreaming, a sudden knock on the door startled me, and my house of cards came tumbling down. I was back to square one.

Once upon a time, I had an assistant named Stacy, but the absence of clients meant I couldn’t afford to keep her. The truth was, the silence was getting to me. Just as the knock repeated, I shot up.

“Come in!” I called out, curious.

The door creaked open, and a man entered. He appeared to be about my age, though nervousness surrounded him like a shadow. His hands were restless, and sweat glistened on his forehead.

He hesitated, leaving me to break the ice.

“I’m listening,” I encouraged, pointing to the chair opposite my desk. “Feel free to sit down. I don’t bite.”

Reluctantly, he sat, his fingers tapping nervously on the chair’s arms.

“Thanks,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Leaning forward, I asked, “First time doing this?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I didn’t even know if I should come here.”

“Well, you’re here now,” I reassured him. “That’s what matters. The first step is usually the hardest.”

His nervous chuckle revealed that he was still uneasy.

“Let’s begin with something simple. What’s your name?” I asked.

“Matt,” he replied.

“Nice to meet you, Matt,” I said, trying to put him at ease. “How can I assist you?”

His grip tightened on the chair. “I need to find my mother… actually, not the one who raised me, but my biological mother. My mom passed away two years ago.” He paused, inhaled deeply, and let out a long sigh. “I mean, the woman who gave birth to me.”

I observed his tense features, noting the tightness in his jaw and the way his gaze was fixed firmly on his hands.

“You’re looking for your biological mother,” I stated softly.

Matt nodded, appearing haunted by the thought.

“Do you have anything to go on?” I inquired.

“Just the city I was born in and my birth date,” he confessed.

I grabbed a notepad. “Which city?”

He told me, and a chill ran down my spine. We shared the same birthplace.

“And your birth date?”

“November 19, 1987,” he replied.

My pen froze mid-air. That date matched mine. An uneasy feeling gripped my stomach as I scribbled the information down anyway.

“Will you take the case?” he asked, voice full of hope.

“Yes,” I replied. I needed the work, but this was now more than just a job.

“Thank you,” he murmured as he got up.

“One more thing,” I called just as he reached the door.

He stopped and turned back.

“How did you hear about me?”

“From a woman I work with – Stacy,” he said.

Hearing her name lightened my mood. Stacy was still looking out for me.

“That’s all I needed. Thanks,” I said.

Matt nodded and left, leaving me with thoughts of possibilities swirling in my mind.

I headed to our shared hometown the following day, embracing the familiar sights. The brick buildings, the faded signs—all remnants of a place I once knew. Though time had moved, these structures remained almost unchanged, echoing with memories of my early years.

My reasons for taking the case weren’t solely monetary. This was deeply personal, with more at stake than I had previously imagined. It was the city of my birth, matching the date on Matt’s file perfectly.

My mother’s memories eluded my grasp— no photographs, no keepsakes, only an empty feeling that lingered long after she left.

I convinced myself she didn’t want me; it was easier than risking rejection again. But something within Matt’s desperation for answers sparked a similar hunger in me.

I soon found myself at the hospital where Matt was born. After making my way through the unwelcoming corridors, I stood at the records desk. A no-nonsense nurse greeted me with a stern look behind her glasses.

“Can I help you?” she asked critically.

“I’m here to look through some old records,” I told her, trying to convey sincerity. “Promise it won’t be long.”

Without blinking, she replied, “Access to those files is restricted.”

“This is for someone trying to find their birth mother,” I explained, hoping to stir some compliance from her.

“Rules are rules,” she insisted, her expression unyielding.

I lowered my voice, leaning in slightly. “Look, if I can’t find what I’m looking for here, I’ll only return with more questions… and probably some legal help, which would be a hassle for us both. Don’t you agree?”

Finally, she sighed, her resistance waning. “Fine, two hours. Not a moment longer.”

With access granted, I poured over the birth records from November 1987, eyes scouring each line. But the boys from November 19 were missing.

Glancing around, a locked cabinet drew my attention— possibly holding what was concealed. Old locks like those posed little difficulty for someone with my experience.

Inside, I found a file labeled: Newborns Who Were Abandoned.

Two names were listed. Matt’s name. And my own.

Two names shared by their mothers: Carla. But only one had a last name.

Taking photos of the records, I withdrew, my mind buzzed with their possibilities.

Back in my car, I ran the full name through my laptop. She still resided here.

The drive to the address passed in a blur, my mind preoccupied with what awaited.

Face to face with the house, my nerves frayed. Clenching and unclenching my fists, I tried to dispel the tension. Outside her front door, I rang the bell.

What if she wasn’t my mother? What if she was? Both prospects frightened me.

A woman answered, her red-hued hair—the same shade I once had—as telling as the dimples we shared.

My words caught in my throat.

“Can I help you?” Her voice revealed caution.

“Are you Carla?” I croaked.

Her eyes studied mine, “That’s me,” she confirmed.

“Years back, you had a baby boy on November 19, 1987, at the hospital…” I started, voice shaking at the enormity of it all.

Her grip on the doorframe tightened. Surprise and recognition mingled on her face.

“How…?” she faltered, voice trembling.

Quietly, she stepped back, “Please, come in.”

I was led through a hallway lined with pictures of her with a man, the walls bearing no trace of children. The photos made me question: was family never meant for me?

“I was hired to find you,” I confessed over a steaming cup of coffee.

Her posture stiffened. “By whom?”

There was a scar on her wrist that stopped me cold—a memory of Matt’s wrist flickered, with its identical mark.

Suddenly, it all made sense. “Matt,” I admitted, my voice finding its firmness. “Matt is your son, the one searching for you.”

Carla’s hands covered her mouth, tears welling up as she absorbed what I revealed.

“I don’t deserve it,” she cried. “I was young and scared… I’ve regretted every day. No more children followed. Maybe I wasn’t meant to have any.”

My next words cut through her mounting sobs. “He wants to meet you,” I stressed. “Don’t lose him again.”

Her nod trembled as her cries continued. Gratitude surfaced amongst her emotions. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Outside, as she confronted her emotions, another query bubbled up – I couldn’t leave without asking. “Do you remember another woman giving birth the same day as you? Her name was Carla too.”

Her sad smile conveyed remembrance through the years.

“Yes,” she reflected, details flowing effortlessly. “I picked her up on the way to the hospital. Labor had begun, but she was car-less.” She peered into my eyes. “Her boy, he was you. Her eyes reflected in yours.”

A lump rose in my throat.

“She died during childbirth,” Carla relayed softly. “It was sudden, and no one’s details were taken. I’ve considered what happened on our way together. She wasn’t local and stayed only briefly. The birth was premature, and she feared for you. But her love, clear as day, was for you.”

My hands shook and tears blurred my sight.

Her memory already touched with time, Carla added, “They buried her here—a few blocks away. Her grave bears only her name and the date.”

I nodded, words evading me.

“I’ll give Matt your address,” I finally said. “Thank you.”

Grateful, she spoke faintly, “Thank you.”

Leaving, I sent Matt the address with a new hope.

The drive to the cemetery steadied my soul. There lay her grave, her name etched in its simplicity across the stone. I traced over her name with my fingers, inhaling deeply as I contemplated who she must have been.

She hadn’t left willingly. She wanted me, and she fought for the brief moment she had. Knowing the truth replaced decades of assumed rejection.

As hours melted away, the air cooled. I remained by her side, contemplating our shared pasts.

Heading back, I glimpsed Matt at Carla’s doorstep, wrapped in her embrace. Relief coursed through me. At least, amidst our personal revelations, I could repair the broken thread of a family once thought lost.