Man Finds Broken Phone on Road—What Happens Next Will Leave You Speechless!
They often say curiosity killed the cat, but in my case, it helped a struggling family find the help they needed. The day I found the broken phone turned out to change my life in ways I never expected.
It was a chilly morning when I left my house, the autumn air fresh on my face. My mother, Helen, was already making breakfast, and like every day, I was on my way to the bakery to pick up fresh rolls for her. I had no idea that this would become a very important day for both of us.
It was our little tradition to have breakfast together, something that made our small world feel secure. You might wonder why a 30-year-old man would still live with his mother. Well, I never knew my father. He left my mom when she told him she was pregnant. So, my mom and I lived together to avoid being lonely.
What about my love life, you ask? Well, I’m not exactly great at socializing. My looks haven’t helped either, so dating was never easy, and I stopped trying a long time ago. Instead, I focused on my programming work, spending my days coding and my nights fixing gadgets.
That morning, as I walked down the street, my sneaker hit something hard. I looked down and saw it—a phone, its screen cracked in pieces, lying in the grass by the curb.
Curious, I picked it up. It was an old model, one of those phones you only see in the hands of people who can’t afford better. The casing was dented and the back partly peeled off, as though a car had run over it. “Maybe I can fix it,” I thought to myself.
I slipped it into my pocket and continued to the bakery, but the phone stayed on my mind. It wasn’t just the damage—it was how it seemed so carelessly discarded.
By the time I returned home, I had forgotten about the broken phone in my pocket. Mom and I had a nice breakfast, and we got on with our Saturday. Then I remembered the phone and took out my own to remove its SIM card. If the phone didn’t work, maybe the SIM card still would.
I carefully slid the SIM into my backup phone and powered it up. A list of contacts appeared. Most were hospitals, schools, and emergency services. But there was one number marked as a favorite—”Daughter.”
I felt something tighten in my chest. Who had lost this phone? 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 voice answered. “Mom?!”
My heart skipped a beat. “I’m not your mom. Sorry for calling,” I quickly said, about to hang up, but the girl’s next words made me stop.
“Where is she?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“Um, I don’t know,” I replied. “I found a broken phone and used its SIM card. Who are you?” I asked, sensing something was wrong.
The girl hesitated. “Julie. My mom went to the store yesterday and didn’t come back.”
A cold feeling washed over me. “Julie, where’s your dad or grandma, anyone I can talk to?”
“I don’t have a dad,” she said quietly. “Or a grandma. Just Mom.”
My throat tightened. “Do you know where you live?”
“Independence Street. Building seven, apartment 18.”
The apartment building was run-down, the kind with flickering hallway lights and mailboxes stuffed with overdue bills.
I gripped the phone tightly. “Julie, are you okay? Are you alone?”
“Yes, I’m alone,” she whispered. “But my legs don’t work. I can’t leave. I’m scared.”
I stood up quickly. “Your legs—what do you mean?”
“I have a wheelchair,” she said simply. “But it’s hard to move by myself. I’m scared.”
Without thinking, I said, “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 hung up.
My mom, who had been listening, grabbed her coat. “You’re not going alone,” she said. “We need to help.”
This wasn’t how I had planned to spend my weekend, but it felt right. Finding the phone felt like fate. We took a cab and reached the apartment in fifteen minutes.
They often say curiosity killed the cat, but in my case, it helped a struggling family find the help they needed. The day I found the broken phone turned out to change my life in ways I never expected.
It was a chilly morning when I left my house, the autumn air fresh on my face. My mother, Helen, was already making breakfast, and like every day, I was on my way to the bakery to pick up fresh rolls for her. I had no idea that this would become a very important day for both of us.
It was our little tradition to have breakfast together, something that made our small world feel secure. You might wonder why a 30-year-old man would still live with his mother. Well, I never knew my father. He left my mom when she told him she was pregnant. So, my mom and I lived together to avoid being lonely.
What about my love life, you ask? Well, I’m not exactly great at socializing. My looks haven’t helped either, so dating was never easy, and I stopped trying a long time ago. Instead, I focused on my programming work, spending my days coding and my nights fixing gadgets.
That morning, as I walked down the street, my sneaker hit something hard. I looked down and saw it—a phone, its screen cracked in pieces, lying in the grass by the curb.
Curious, I picked it up. It was an old model, one of those phones you only see in the hands of people who can’t afford better. The casing was dented and the back partly peeled off, as though a car had run over it. “Maybe I can fix it,” I thought to myself.
I slipped it into my pocket and continued to the bakery, but the phone stayed on my mind. It wasn’t just the damage—it was how it seemed so carelessly discarded.
By the time I returned home, I had forgotten about the broken phone in my pocket. Mom and I had a nice breakfast, and we got on with our Saturday. Then I remembered the phone and took out my own to remove its SIM card. If the phone didn’t work, maybe the SIM card still would.
I carefully slid the SIM into my backup phone and powered it up. A list of contacts appeared. Most were hospitals, schools, and emergency services. But there was one number marked as a favorite—”Daughter.”
I felt something tighten in my chest. Who had lost this phone? 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 voice answered. “Mom?!”
My heart skipped a beat. “I’m not your mom. Sorry for calling,” I quickly said, about to hang up, but the girl’s next words made me stop.
“Where is she?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“Um, I don’t know,” I replied. “I found a broken phone and used its SIM card. Who are you?” I asked, sensing something was wrong.
The girl hesitated. “Julie. My mom went to the store yesterday and didn’t come back.”
A cold feeling washed over me. “Julie, where’s your dad or grandma, anyone I can talk to?”
“I don’t have a dad,” she said quietly. “Or a grandma. Just Mom.”
My throat tightened. “Do you know where you live?”
“Independence Street. Building seven, apartment 18.”
The apartment building was run-down, the kind with flickering hallway lights and mailboxes stuffed with overdue bills.
I gripped the phone tightly. “Julie, are you okay? Are you alone?”
“Yes, I’m alone,” she whispered. “But my legs don’t work. I can’t leave. I’m scared.”
I stood up quickly. “Your legs—what do you mean?”
“I have a wheelchair,” she said simply. “But it’s hard to move by myself. I’m scared.”
Without thinking, I said, “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 hung up.
My mom, who had been listening, grabbed her coat. “You’re not going alone,” she said. “We need to help.”
This wasn’t how I had planned to spend my weekend, but it felt right. Finding the phone felt like fate. We took a cab and reached the apartment in fifteen minutes.
The building was old and worn, the kind of place where you wouldn’t expect much help from neighbors.
I knocked on Apartment 18, my heart racing.
A soft, hesitant voice came from behind the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s Alan,” I said. “I spoke to you on the phone.”
The door creaked open. A small, thin girl, no older than six or seven, sat in a wheelchair. Her face was pale, her hair messy, and her eyes were wide with worry.
“Will you find my mom?” she asked, tears in her eyes.
At that moment, I understood this was no simple situation. I knelt in front of her. “We will, I promise. But first, let’s make sure you’re okay. Do you have food?”
She shook her head. “I had a sandwich yesterday. That was the last one.”
“I’ll get you something to eat soon,” I promised.
“Julie, what’s your mom’s name?”
“Victoria,” she said softly. “She always comes back, but she hasn’t this time.”
My heart broke for her.
“She’s the best mom,” Julie continued. “She never leaves me this long. I tried calling her, but her phone didn’t work. None of the neighbors would come because people here don’t help.”
I made a decision. “I’ll look for food. My mom, Helen, will stay with you.”
When I came back, my mom quickly made something for Julie, who ate it quickly. But I knew we needed to find Victoria.
I searched online and found something that made my heart drop: a woman had been hit by a car on Parkova Street yesterday and was in critical condition at a nearby hospital.
I called the hospital, but the line was busy. After a few tries, I finally got through.
“Yes,” the nurse confirmed after I explained everything. “She was admitted yesterday. She’s stable now but unconscious. We couldn’t reach her family.”
I was relieved but anxious. “I’m coming,” I said.
We decided to leave Julie at our apartment with our neighbor, Maureen, who kindly agreed to look after her while we went to the hospital to check on Victoria.
At the hospital, the nurse said Victoria had just regained consciousness. She was weak, but the nurse thought she might want to see us.
When we entered Victoria’s room, she looked up at me with bruised eyes.
“Who…?” she whispered.
“I’m Alan, and this is my mom, Helen,” I said gently. “I found your phone, and I spoke to Julie. She’s waiting for you.”
Victoria’s eyes filled with tears. “Julie… is she okay?”
I nodded. “She’s scared, but she’s okay. She’s been waiting for you.”
Victoria turned away, filled with guilt. “I never wanted this.”
I sat down beside her. “What happened?”
She swallowed hard. “I was hit on my way to get medicine for Julie. She has a condition, and I’ve been saving up for her surgery. But it’s been hard. I don’t have family to turn to. It’s just been me and Julie.”
My heart ached for her.
“I never wanted to fail Julie,” she continued, her voice shaking. “I didn’t ask for help because I was too afraid to admit how bad things were.”
“I couldn’t afford a car, so I walked. That night, I was rushing home when the accident happened. I was terrified not for myself, but because I knew Julie would be alone.”
I exhaled, my grip tightening on the chair. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Her eyes lifted, filled with hope.
“I’ll help you,” I said firmly. “Julie deserves a chance.”
With some donations and the help of a specialist, we arranged surgery for Julie. It wasn’t easy, but it changed everything.
Months later, I watched as Julie took her first steps. She clung to my hand, but she was walking! Victoria stood beside me, tears in her eyes.
She turned to me, barely whispering, “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You don’t have to,” I said.
Over time, Julie and I became close, and my relationship with Victoria grew stronger. Eventually, we got married and I adopted Julie.
I never expected to have a family, but now, standing with my wife and the little girl I saved, I realized I had found one.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
