My family turned their backs on me when I left journalism to become a private detective. They saw it as a disgrace, and I started to wonder if they were right. No clients, no money, just regrets.
But then a teenage girl walked into my office, searching for her mother—and her case changed everything. I was sitting in my small, dimly lit office, sorting through the week’s mail. Bills, bills, bills, advertisements, more bills.
The usual. I let out a heavy sigh and set the letters aside, covering my face with my hands. I used to be a journalist—a successful one, I must say—but I always felt like it wasn’t enough.
Stories were always unfinished, truths half-exposed, and justice left waiting. So, at 42, I quit my job and decided to become a private detective. It was something that truly interested me, something I had always wanted to do.
My family didn’t support me. They tried to talk me out of it, but when they realized my mind was made up, they turned their backs on me. My husband finally had a reason to leave me for a younger woman—one with shinier hair, fewer wrinkles, and, I assumed, fewer opinions.
And my daughter? She cut me out of her life completely. She saw being a private detective as disgraceful—especially when compared to the prestige of journalism.
Of course, it hurt. But the longer I worked as a private detective, the more I started to wonder if they had been right. I hadn’t had a new client in nearly three months, and I had plenty of debt.
People didn’t believe in a female private investigator. Men were assumed to be better at solving cases—stronger, sharper, tougher. As if intuition, patience, and persistence didn’t count.
Suddenly, even surprisingly, I heard a hesitant knock at the door. I straightened up, quickly smoothing my hair and shoving the pile of bills into a drawer. “Come in!” I called out.
The doorknob turned slowly, and the door creaked open. A girl, about fifteen, stepped inside. She hesitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Her clothes were too small—cheap, second-hand, sleeves of her sweater jagged as if they’d been cut off. “How can I help you?” I asked, motioning to the chair across from my desk. She sat down carefully, pulling her sleeves over her hands, her long, unkempt hair kept falling into her face.
She brushed it away absently, over and over. One thing was clear—she didn’t have a mother. I had taught my daughter how to braid her hair when she was six.
This girl had no idea what to do with hers. “My name is Emily,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I’m an orphan.
I need your help to find my mother.”
I studied her face. She looked nervous, but her eyes held something else—determination. “She gave you up?” I asked.
Emily nodded. “Yes. I don’t know anything about her.
Not her name, not what she looks like. Nothing.”
She swallowed hard. “I’m fifteen now.
No one is going to adopt me at this point. But I want to find her. I just want to see her.
I need to understand why she left me.”
Her words stung. No child should feel unwanted. No child should wonder why they weren’t enough.
“I’ll need something to go on,” I said, reaching for my notebook. Emily sat up straighter. “I was born in this town.
I’ve never moved, never been sent anywhere else.” She took a breath. “My birthday is February 15, 2009.”
I jotted it down. “Is that enough?” she asked, her fingers gripping the edge of her sweater.
“I’ll do everything I can,” I promised. She hesitated, then pulled a few crumpled bills from her pocket. “I have some money, but not much.”
It wasn’t even close to what I needed, but that didn’t matter.
“If I find her, then you can pay me,” I said. Her lips trembled. “Thank you.”
She stood to leave.
“Wait. How can I find you?” I asked. She scribbled an address and handed it to me.
“My foster home. I’ll be there.”
I nodded, and she walked out. The next morning, I wasted no time.
It had been a long time since I had worked on a real case. Even though I knew I wouldn’t make any money from this one—I couldn’t, in good conscience, take money from an orphan—it still felt good to have a purpose. The first place I went was the hospital.
Our town had only one, which made things easier. If Emily’s mother had given birth there, the records would be somewhere inside. One advantage of my former job was that I had connections everywhere.
The hospital was no exception. I knew exactly who to talk to—Camilla. She had been a nurse for years, and we had met back when I was covering a story about harassment in hospitals.
She had been a source then. Since that day, she’d been a friend. As soon as she spotted me, she put down her clipboard and grinned.
“Sara!” she said, pulling me into a quick hug. “What brings you here? Please don’t say trouble.”
“I need your help,” I said, leaning in slightly.
Camilla raised an eyebrow. “Of course you do. You never just stop by to visit an old friend, do you?”
I crossed my arms.
“You were literally at my house for dinner last week.”
She smirked. “Fine. What do you need?”
“Birth records.
February 15, 2009.”
She blinked. “That’s specific. Should I be worried?”
“Nothing illegal.
I just need to find a name.”
Camilla folded her arms. “That’s doable, but make it fast.”
I hesitated. “The baby was given up, probably in secret.”
Her expression changed.
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