They often say curiosity killed the cat, but in my case, it helped a desperate family find the assistance they’d been searching for. My curiosity, sparked the day I found that broken  phone, ended up leading to a happy outcome I never could have anticipated.

It was a crisp morning when I stepped out of my house, the autumn air cool against my face. My mother, Helen, was already making breakfast, and, as usual, I was heading to the bakery to pick up fresh rolls for her. Little did I know that this would turn into an eventful day for both of us.

Having breakfast together was a little tradition my mother and I cherished—it made our small world feel stable. You might be wondering why a 30-year-old successful man still lives with his mother.

Here’s the thing—I never knew my father. He left my mother when she told him she was pregnant. So, my mother and I were both lonely, and we decided to live together to keep each other company.

What about my romantic life? Well, I’m not exactly a social butterfly—never have been. My lack of conventional good looks didn’t help either, so dating was always a struggle. I eventually gave up trying. Instead, I threw myself into my programming work, spending my days coding and my nights tinkering with gadgets.

That morning, as I walked down the sidewalk, my sneaker brushed against something hard. I looked down and saw it—a  phone, its screen shattered like a spiderweb, lying in the grass just off the curb.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I picked it up. The casing was dented, the back partially peeled off, as if it had been run over by a car. It wasn’t a valuable model—an old keypad phone, the kind you only see in the hands of people who can’t afford better.

I turned it over, seeing it as an interesting challenge. “Maybe I can fix it,” I muttered.

I slipped it into my pocket and continued on to the bakery, but the phone was on my mind the whole time. It wasn’t just the damage—it was the way it had been discarded, almost carelessly, like someone had abandoned it in a rush.

By the time I got home, I’d forgotten about the phone in my pocket. My mom and I had a delicious breakfast she’d prepared, then went on with our Saturday. It wasn’t until later that I remembered the broken phone. I pulled out my own phone and removed its SIM card.

If the old phone was dead, maybe the SIM card still worked, I thought. I carefully slid it into my backup phone and powered it on. A list of contacts appeared. Most were hospitals, schools, and emergency services. Only one number was marked as a favorite—”Daughter.”

Something tightened in my chest. Who had lost this phone? And why did it seem like the only person they cared about was this “Daughter”? On impulse, I dialed the number. It rang once. Then twice.

A small, excited voice finally answered. “Mom?!”

My breath caught. “I—I’m not your mom. I’m sorry for calling,” I replied quickly, ready to end the call. But the next thing the little girl said made me pause.

“Where is she?” Her voice trembled slightly.

“Um, I’m sorry, but I don’t know,” I admitted. “I found a broken phone and used its SIM card. Who are you?” I asked, sensing something wasn’t right.

The girl hesitated. “Julie. My mom went to the store yesterday and didn’t come back,” she said, her voice cracking.

A chill ran through me. “Julie, where’s your dad, or your grandma? Anyone I can speak to?”

“I don’t have a dad,” she said quietly. “Or a grandma. Just Mom.”

I swallowed hard. “Do you know where you live?”

“Independence Street. Building Seven, Apartment 18.”

My hands tightened around the phone. “Okay, Julie, are you okay? Are you alone right now?”

“Yes, I’m okay and alone,” she whispered. “But my legs don’t work. I can’t leave.”

I stood up abruptly. “Your legs—what do you mean?”

“I have a wheelchair,” she said simply. “But it’s hard to move without anyone to help me. I’m scared.”

I didn’t hesitate. My protective instincts kicked in. “Julie, listen to me. My name is Alan, and I’m coming to get you. I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“Okay,” she replied faintly before I hung up.

My mother, who had been listening in, immediately grabbed her coat. “You’re not going alone,” she said firmly. “If there’s a child in trouble, we need to help.”

This wasn’t how I’d planned to spend my weekend, but it felt like the right thing to do. Finding that  phone felt like fate. We caught a cab and arrived at the apartment complex in less than fifteen minutes.

The building was run-down, with flickering hallway lights and mailboxes stuffed with overdue bills.

I held my breath as I knocked on Apartment 18, unsure of what I’d find.

A small, hesitant voice came from behind the door. “Who is it?”

“It’s Alan,” I said. “I spoke to you on the phone.”

“The door’s open,” she replied. “Come in.”