Man Finds a Smashed Phone on the Roadside—When He Inserts the SIM Card Into His Own Phone and Calls ‘Daughter,’ His Heart Stops

They usually say curiosity got the cat, but in my situation, it helped a desperate family find the help they had needed for a long time. My curiosity on the day I found that broken phone also ended up leading to a happy life I never anticipated.

It was a crisp morning when I stepped out of my house, the autumn air cool against my face. My mother, Helen, had already started breakfast, and like every morning, I was on my way to the bakery to pick up fresh rolls for her. Little did I know that this was going to be a very eventful day for both of us.

It was my mother’s and my little tradition to have breakfast together—something that made our small world feel stable. You’re probably wondering why a 30-year-old successful man would live with his mother.

See, I never knew my father. He’d abandoned my mother when she told him about her pregnancy. So my mother was as lonely as I was, and to prevent that, we decided to live together.

What about my romantic life, you ask? Well, I’m not exactly a social butterfly—never have been. My lack of conventional good looks also means that dating has always been a struggle, and I’d long given up trying. Instead, I poured myself into my programming work, spending my days coding and my nights tinkering with gadgets.

That morning, as I strolled down the sidewalk, my sneaker scuffed 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.

With my curiosity piqued, 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 model worth much—an older keypad phone, the kind you only saw in hands that couldn’t afford better.

I turned it over in my hand, seeing an interesting challenge. “Maybe I can fix it,” I murmured.

Slipping it into my pocket, I continued to the bakery, but the phone was on my mind the entire time. It wasn’t just the damage—it was the way it was just lying there, abandoned, as if someone had discarded it in a hurry.

By the time I arrived back home, I had forgotten about the broken phone tucked into my pocket. My mom and I had the delicious breakfast she prepared before we set about our Saturday. Remembering the broken phone, I pulled out my own and removed its SIM card.

If the old phone was dead, maybe the SIM card inside 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 truly cared about was this “Daughter”? On impulse, I dialed the number. It rang once. Then twice.

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

My breath caught. “I—no, I’m not your mom. I’m sorry for calling,” I quickly replied, ready to drop the call, but the next thing the little girl said made me pause.

“Where is she?” Her voice wavered 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 curiously, sensing that something was wrong.

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

A cold feeling spread through me. “Julie, where’s your dad, grandma, or anyone I can speak to?”

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

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

“Independence Street. Building seven, apartment 18.”

My hands gripped the phone tighter. “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 abruptly. “Your legs—what do you mean?”

“I have a wheelchair,” she said simply. “But it’s hard to move with no one around to help me. I’m scared.”

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

“Okay,” she replied weakly before I dropped the phone.

My mother, who had been listening, 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 had imagined spending my weekend, but it felt like the right thing to do. Finding that phone when I did was fate. We caught a cab and arrived at the apartment complex in less than fifteen minutes.

It was a run-down building, the kind with flickering hallway lights and mailboxes stuffed with overdue bills.

I held my breath as I knocked on Apartment Eighteen, uncertain of what I’d find.

A soft, hesitant voice came through the door. “Who is it?”

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

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

The door creaked when I pushed it open just a few inches. A tiny and frail little girl, no older than six or seven, peered up at me from a wheelchair in the makeshift living room. Her hair was unkempt, her face pale and full of sadness, and she looked at me with tired, wide eyes.

My heart clenched.

“Will you find my mom?” she asked, her voice trembling, tears in her eyes.

At that moment, I understood that the journey ahead would uncover truths I wasn’t ready to face, but it was too late to turn back now.

So I knelt in front of her and said, “We will, I promise. But first, let’s make sure you’re okay. Do you have food?”

She shook her head. “I ate a sandwich yesterday. That was the last one.”

“I’ll go find something in a bit,” I comforted her.

Taking a breath of resignation, I asked, “Julie, what’s your mom’s name?”

“Victoria,” she said softly. “She never leaves me alone this long.”

That only made my anxiety worse.

“She is the best mom ever and usually returns when she goes out to run errands, but this time, she didn’t. I tried calling her, but her number didn’t go through. None of the neighbors would come to check on me because people here keep to themselves,” the little girl confessed.

My heart ached, and my mind raced. I realized that this wasn’t a simple case. Something was terribly wrong. Julie’s mother had gone missing, and now she was alone, in a wheelchair, unable to move properly, with no one to rely on.

But we were here now, so I said, “I’m going to look for food. My mom, Helen, will stay here with you, okay?”

“Okay,” Julie replied.

When I returned, my mother quickly prepared food for the little girl, who scarfed it down hungrily as we sat together. I knew we couldn’t waste time. We needed to find Victoria as soon as possible.

Whipping out my phone, I searched online, checking news reports, and my stomach dropped when I found it: a woman had been hit by a Ford yesterday on Parkova Street. She was in critical condition at a local hospital.