In my career as a private detective, I was approached by a man looking for his birth mother. Little did I know, the investigation would unearth surprising connections, linking me in ways I had never anticipated. While some truths provide closure, others unveil paths you might prefer to leave unexplored.

Sitting at my desk, I glanced at the pile of unpaid rent notices, each stamped with bright red warnings, as though forewarning impending doom. I rubbed my temples, exhaling deeply.

Work had been slow lately. My aspirations of becoming a private detective had conjured images of solving important cases, earning a good living, and living the exciting life of a detective from film noir. The reality was far from glamourous.

There I was, often subsisting on instant noodles due to my empty purse and dreams.

As I balanced a playing card on my desk, attempting to construct a tower, a sudden knock startled me, sending the fragile structure tumbling.

Another weary sigh escaped me.

My former assistant, Stacy, had moved on after I couldn’t afford her salary. Quiet settled in my office, becoming far too familiar.

The knock sounded anew.

“Come in!” I beckoned.

The door opened, revealing a man around my age, with a clear sense of unease radiating from him.

Sweat dotted his forehead while his hands fretfully rubbed together. His eyes flitted nervously.

Seeing him hesitant to voice his purpose, I broke the silence.

“I’m all ears,” I urged, gesturing for him to sit across from me. “Relax, I’m here to help.”

Tentatively, he sank into the chair, his nervous hands constantly moving.

“Uh, thanks,” he murmured, voice timid.

Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on the desk. “Your first time seeking this kind of help?”

“Yes,” he conceded. “Unsure what to expect, I almost didn’t come.”

“But here you are. That’s a good start,” I encouraged. “First steps are always the hardest.”

His nervous laughter was brief, but did little to alleviate his tension.

“Okay, let’s keep it simple. What’s your name?”

“Matt,” he replied.

“Nice to meet you, Matt.” Offering a supportive nod, I asked, “What brings you to me?”

He clasped the chair arms. “I want to find my mother… well, my birth mother. My adoptive mom passed away two years back.” Matt’s voice quivered slightly as he inhaled deeply. “I want to find the woman who gave birth to me.”

Observing his rigid posture, his focus on his hands was unwavering.

“Your biological mother,” I clarified, watching him nod as he swallowed.

“Do you have any information to start with?”

“Only my birthplace and birthdate,” he replied.

Taking out a notepad, I asked, “City?”

“Same as where I’m from,” he said.

“Birthdate?”

“November 19, 1987.”

The pen hovered as recognition knotted my stomach. My own birthdate. Shaking off the shock, I wrote it down.

“You’ll investigate?” he inquired.

“Absolutely,” I reassured him, recognizing the dual motive—the desperate need for a paycheck and the unexpected personal stake.

“Gratitude,” he murmured, standing and moving towards the exit.

“Just one more question,” I interjected as he reached the threshold.

“How did you find me?”

“A colleague suggested you. Stacy.”

I grinned, Stacy still had my back.

With a nod, he departed.

The next day found me navigating my old hometown’s streets. Everything seemed unchanged, exuding a sense of nostalgia with familiar brick edifices and worn signs.

The motivation behind taking this case wasn’t solely financial. This journey had elements of self-discovery. Same town, same date.

My childhood had been defined by life in foster care, with no answers regarding my departure.

Admitting to myself I was left was easier than confronting the possibilities.

But Matt rivaled those convictions. Sparking a new internal narrative—did I seek the same answers?

Arriving at the birthplace hospital, its aged facade greeted me. I approached the records desk.

A nurse with weariness etched into her features peered up, glasses perched low on her nose.

“How may I assist you?” came her droll inquiry.

“I need access to some historical records,” I explained. “It should be quick.”

Her head shook. “Sorry, those files are off-limits.”

“I’m just trying to help someone reunite with a missing part of his past,” I pleaded.

She was unmoved. “Policies are policies.”

“Look, if I don’t resolve it now, I might have to involve authorities, making it a nuisance for us both,” I reasoned.

Her resolve cracked. “Alright. You get two hours. No longer.”

Success.

Through numerous birth records from November 1987, my search came up empty. There was no record of any boy born on the 19th.

Looking around, I noticed a secured cabinet. My instincts propelling me to investigate, I quickly bypassed the antiquated lock.

Inside lay a file titled: Newborns Who Were Abandoned.

Two boys. Matt and myself. Both mothers listed simply as “Carla.” Only one contained a surname.

After photographing the file, I pocketed my phone and departed.

Sitting in my car, I keyed the surname into my laptop. The woman still lived in town.

Entering it into my GPS, I drove to her residence.

Standing before her door gripped me with trepidation. My fists tightened, my chest constricted.

Possibilities flooded my mind—what if she was my mother? What if she wasn’t? Both thoughts were equally daunting.

Gathering my courage, I rang the bell. Moments passed. The door opened.

A woman stood before me, her faded red hair echoed shades of my youth. We shared dimples and a familiar nose.

“Can I help you?” she asked, cautious.

“Are you Carla?” I replied, my voice hoarse.

“Yes,” she replied, watching me intently.

“Over 30 years ago, you gave up a son at birth. November 19, 1987,” I explained.

Her grip tightened on the doorframe, her expression perplexed.

“How could you…” Her voice cracked.

She stepped aside, “Come inside, please.”

Following her, I noted the hallway adorned with photos of her with the same man. The couple seemed solitary.

In the kitchen, the aroma of coffee pervaded the air. She gestured to a seat. I obliged.

“I’m a detective,” I announced. “Tasked with finding you.”

Her composure faltered. “Who sent you?”

Queries of why she left me, why she didn’t search, churned within me.

Yet, I noticed her wrist’s birthmark, recalling Matt’s similar mark.

Reality dawned. “Matt, your son. He wanted to find you.”

Carla’s hands flew to her mouth, tears welling.

“I don’t deserve this,” she wept. “My past mistakes…” Raw regret laced her voice. “It’s haunted me.”

The table anchored me. “Matt believes in second chances,” I advised. “You should too.”

Tears cascaded down her cheeks as she nodded.

“Thank you,” she said between sobs.