I was 35, unemployed, and my résumé felt hopeless. Once a successful designer, I couldn’t even get past first interviews—my stutter, which began three years earlier when my mother disappeared, always flustered me. She’d said, “I’ll be back soon,” then was gone.
Life stalled—I searched everywhere for her, filed a missing-person report, and remained trapped in that moment. My friend Rachel urged me to do something, anything, like jog. So one stormy evening, I forced myself out the door.
Running through empty streets and a neglected playground, I found a three-year-old girl—Mia—on a swing, alone. As I approached, stuttering, she didn’t shy away. When the wind knocked out the lights, I scooped her up and offered cookies and milk, but her necklace stunned me—it held my mother’s locket.
I brought Mia home, called emergency services, and spent the night caring for her with what little I had. The next morning, CPS arrived—and with them, my mother. She has advanced Alzheimer’s and had wandered off in her care, leaving Mia alone.
Mia ran into her mother’s arms, calling her “Mommy.” When asked who Mia was to me, I said, “She’s my sister.” I’ll take her in. Rachel brought coffee and hugged me. “You’re living again,” she said. And together, we started our new life.