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

I was between jobs in my cozy little office, staring at a teetering stack of past due rent bills.

The bright red stamps on the envelopes felt as daunting as a courtroom sentence. I leaned back and rubbed my temples, trying to push the worry away.

Clients had become a rare commodity, much like finding a needle in a haystack. Becoming a private detective seemed like a promising journey, filled with intrigue and noir-styled victories.

Yet, the reality was different. Instead of glamorous cases, I found myself scratching together the means to afford anything beyond instant noodles.

For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney

As I absentmindedly built a house of cards on my desk, an unexpected knock startled me, bringing the flimsy structure down. I sighed, missing the presence of my former assistant, Stacy, who had been let go because of dwindling business.

For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney

The second knock urged me to call out, “Come in!”

The door opened to reveal a man my age, carrying a nervous energy in the constant twitch of his hands. He settled into the chair opposite me, visibly struggling to find his words.

“I’m listening,” I prompted, offering him the comfort of experience. “Take a seat. I won’t bite.”

He sat, the tension evident in his barely still frame. “Uh, thanks,” came his soft, unsure response.

I leaned in, encouraging him with, “First time doing this?”

“Yeah,” he confessed. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Wasn’t even sure if it was a good idea.”

A small laugh escaped him, barely lifting the air of tension.

“Let’s start easy. What’s your name?” I coaxed gently.

“Matt,” he replied, gripping the arms of the chair tightly.

“Nice to meet you, Matt,” I said with a reassuring nod. “What brings you here today?”

His voice wavered as he explained, “I need to find my birth mother.”

My expression must have echoed the surprise I felt, but I quickly composed myself. “Looking for your biological mother?” I confirmed.

He nodded. “All I have is the city where I was born and my birth date.”

“What city?” I asked, jotting his answer down. My heart skipped as we realized we shared the same town.

“Date of birth?”

“November 19, 1987,” he said, and my pen halted mid-motion as a chill gripped me. That was my birthday too.

“I’ll take your case,” I said, masking the personal significance behind professional interest.

Matt left, and soon, I found myself traveling down memory lane, back to the town of my birth. Standing amidst familiar streets, a flood of old emotions overwhelmed me. I was there for more than a paycheck. This was personal.

My investigation led me to the hospital where Matt was born. Approaching the records desk, I was met with resistance from a weary nurse who insisted the records were off-limits.

After a delicate negotiation, she consented reluctantly, granting me a glimpse into the past for two brief hours.

In an old cabinet, I unearthed a file labeled “Newborns Abandoned” — a grim category I never imagined would include me. The file listed two boys abandoned on the same day, both named “Carla.”

With newly discovered clues, I traced a woman’s address using her full name and drove towards what possibly was the home of my beginning.

Navigating through hesitant nerves, I confronted the woman named Carla. Her familiar features — red hair and familiar dimples — filled me with a strange kinship.

Conversations revealed mistakes of the past, her regrets manifesting in her trembling voice as she understood Matt’s existence.

Her acknowledgment came with a guilt-ridden gratitude towards a son she believed she didn’t deserve. She apologized with tears, both desolate and hopeful for a reunion with Matt.

Her recount of another woman, also named Carla, brought a wave of profound revelation about my own origins, her words confirming the absence of my mother, who died in childbirth so many years ago.

The news, although striking, was a comfort of sorts. I now knew the truth — my mother wanted me, had fought for me, had cherished me without ever getting to know me.

Leaving Carla’s home, I drove to a simple grave where my mother lay, her name and the date the only remembrance of her life and love.

There, I stayed until the evening shadows lengthened, tracing her name with my fingers, finally understanding the silent, but deep connection we shared.

Later, as I passed by Carla’s home again, I saw Matt engulfed in her welcoming embrace, reuniting a fragmented family once more. As my car moved away, I was left with the gentle assurance of having brought some peace into two separate lives, even as I found a measure of it for myself.

For illustration purposes only. | Source: Midjourney