While Working as a Private Detective, I Took a Case That Revealed a Shocking Truth About Me – Story of the Day

I was hired to locate a man’s birth mother. Seemed like a standard job, but as I dove deeper, unexpected twists came to light, leading me to a place I never imagined. While some answers help us move on, others reveal truths we might prefer to avoid.

There I was, in my office, surrounded by overdue bills with ominous red warnings. They stared at me, much like a judge ready to declare my fate. With a deep sigh, I rubbed my throbbing temples.

Months had dragged on without a single client. What was I thinking when I decided to become a private detective? Maybe I was chasing dreams of solving big mysteries, earning good money, and living like those detectives in the movies.

Instead, I was barely making ends meet. Instant noodles had sadly become my staple diet.

Reclining slightly in my chair, I was preoccupied with balancing a house of cards on my desk when a sudden knock startled me, sending the cards cascading to the floor.

I sighed yet again.

I used to have a reliable assistant, Stacy, but without clients, I couldn’t afford her help anymore. It had been too quiet for too long.

The knock came again, breaking the silence once more.

“Come in!” I finally called out.

The door handle turned, and a man stepped inside. He seemed around my age, with an anxious energy about him.

Sweat glistened on his forehead as his eyes darted around nervously.

Even before he found the words, I spoke.

“I’m all ears,” I said, indicating the chair opposite my desk. “Please, have a seat. I promise I don’t bite.”

The man hesitated, then sank into the chair, looking rigid. His fingers moved restlessly, rubbing together, as his foot tapped nervously against the floor.

“Uh, thanks,” he muttered softly, almost sheepishly.

I leaned in, elbows resting on my desk. “First time doing something like this?”

“Yeah,” he confessed. “I’m a bit unsure about the process. Wasn’t even certain if I should be here.”

“You’re here now, which is what matters,” I stated. “The first step is always the hardest. It’ll be easier next time.”

He let out a short, nervous laugh, but his unease was still evident.

“Let’s start with the basics. What’s your name?” I asked.

“Matt,” he answered.

“Nice to meet you, Matt,” I nodded, hoping to set him at ease. “What do you need help with?”

His grip on the chair tightened. “I’m trying to find my mother… well, not exactly my mother. She passed away two years ago.” He paused, taking a deliberate breath. “I mean the woman who gave birth to me.”

I scrutinized his face, noting his tense jaw and fixed gaze on his hands.

“So you’re searching for your biological mother,” I clarified.

He nodded, visibly swallowing a lump in his throat.

“Do you have any leads?” I inquired.

“Just the city where I was born and my birthdate.”

I lifted a notepad. “Which city?”

He told me, and I penciled it down. Surprisingly, we hailed from the same town.

“What’s your birthdate?”

“November 19, 1987.”

My pen halted abruptly. My stomach fluttered. That was my birthday too.

Summoning all my willpower, I resumed writing.

“So, will you take the case?” he wondered.

“I will,” I responded. I needed the cash, but now, things felt personal.

“Thank you,” he murmured, standing up.

As he made his way to the door, I stopped him.

“One last thing,” I said.

He paused, looking back.

“How did you find me?”

“From someone I know at work. Stacy,” he replied.

For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney

I smiled. Stacy still had my back, even now.

“That’s all,” I assured him.

The next day, I found myself back in our shared hometown, memories flooding as I roamed the familiar streets. It was chilly, the air tinged with the scent of dampened roads.

Not much had changed in the old town — the weathered brick buildings, faded signs, and serene roads greeted me like old acquaintances.

However, this case wasn’t just about money. It felt awfully close to home. I was born here, just like Matt, on the same date.

I’d never discovered what happened to my own mother. No records, no clues, merely silence.

I spent my childhood adrift, moving through foster homes, wondering why I’d been abandoned. Convincing myself she hadn’t wanted me was simpler than searching and learning it was true — or was it?

But Matt wanted answers, and perhaps I did too.

I reached the hospital where he was delivered. The buildings stood as aged and worn brick structures. Approaching the records desk, I found myself under the stern eye of a middle-aged nurse.

“Can I help you?” she queried, adjusting her reading glasses.

“I’m hoping to look over some older records,” I replied. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

She shook her head firmly, “Not possible. Those files are private.”

I leaned closer, “Look, I’m aiding someone in locating his birth mother. It’s a really important matter.”

Her expression held, “Rules are rules.”

Lowering my voice, I continued, “I get it. But if I leave empty-handed, I might need to return with official inquiries, complicating things for us both.”

She sighed, tapping her desk. “Alright. Two hours, not a second more.”

Bingo.

Pouring over the birth records from November 1987, I found nothing mentioned for November 19th. Absolutely no newborn boys that day…

My eyes roamed around, falling upon a secured cabinet. Driven by pure instinct, I acted. The old lock provided little resistance.

Within was a file: Newborns Who Were Abandoned.

Two boys. Matt. Myself.

Both mothers shared the name Carla. One had a last name; the other bore no information beyond the first name.

Taking swift snapshots of the records, I pocketed my phone and departed.

Once I sat behind the wheel, I keyed the woman’s full name into my laptop. She still resided in this town.

Feeding the address to my GPS, I took off.

Standing at her doorstep, my stomach clenched. Uncertainty warred in my gut — was she, or wasn’t she my mother?

Taking a steadying breath, I pressed the doorbell. Several drawn-out seconds followed. The door opened.

A woman faced me. Something struck me immediately — her faded red hair, the dimples, the contours of her nose mirrored my own youthful attributes.

“Can I help you?” she inquired cautiously.

“Are you Carla?” I asked, my voice rougher than I’d intended.

“That’s right,” she replied, scrutinizing my face with curiosity.

I swallowed. “Over 30 years ago, did you give birth to a boy on November 19, 1987, then give him up at the hospital?”

Her lips parted in stunned recognition. Studying me earnestly, her hand grasped the frame for support.

“How…?” she whispered, shaking visibly.

“Please come inside,” she finally said, stepping aside.

She led me through her modest home, walls lined with pictures, mostly featuring herself and a man, absent of any children.

As we settled at the kitchen table, the rich aroma of coffee permeated the air.

She sat opposite me, hands folded.

“I’m a private detective,” I began. “You were hired to be found.”

Her stiffened posture betrayed her surprise. “By whom?”

I paused. As I was about to speak, my eyes caught something on her wrist — a peculiar birthmark. Memories of Matt’s hands, incessantly rubbing, resurfaced. He bore the same mark.

I exhaled, “A man named Matt hired me. Your son. He wanted to find you.”

Carla’s eyes welled with tears. Covering her mouth, she whispered, “I never deserved this. I was young and terrified. My worst mistake… I blamed myself every day, never having other children. I didn’t deserve to.”

“He wants to meet you,” I said, my voice steady. “Don’t let him down again.”

Sobbing, she nodded vigorously, fingers pressed against her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered between cries.

In the doorway, I hesitated.

She wiped away tears, “What?”

“Do you remember another woman delivering on that day? Her name, like yours, was Carla too.”

Her sad smile intertwined with memory, “Yes. I encountered her en route to the hospital, in labor without transport.”

Focusing on me, she noted, “Her baby boy may have been you. You share her eyes.”

A lump threatened my throat.

“What became of her? No last name was recorded.”

Carla’s gaze softened, “Sweetheart,” her voice gentle, “she passed during childbirth. It was sudden, without even gathering her information.”

Breathing sharply, I listened further.

“She wasn’t local, just passing through. Your birth took her by surprise. All she cared for was you*.” Tears welled, yet joy glistened too.

In time, we’d visit her grave. It bore only her name, a poignant tribute.

Rejoining my car, I shared Matt’s reunion with Carla, pure relief washing over.

As I gazed at my mother’s grave, I realized she had always wanted me, fought for me. Now, the truth illuminated my path.

Inside, a deep satisfaction grew, knowing a family was reunited because of my journey, despite my own mystery remaining unsolved.