There’s a certain magic in flea markets—the quiet thrill of digging through forgotten keepsakes and long-lost treasures. For me, it’s more than just a weekend hobby. It’s a tradition that began during childhood summers spent with my grandmother in New England. She used to call the items we found “preloved jewels,” a phrase that has stayed with me ever since.
Now, as a mother and grandmother myself, I still feel that spark each time I wander into a flea market. There’s always the chance that tucked away between dusty books and vintage trinkets lies something special. My husband, Sam, didn’t quite share my enthusiasm. He’s always been practical and sweet—but when it came to flea markets, he called my love for them “collecting clutter.”
That is, until the egg.
It happened on a breezy Saturday. I was browsing a vendor’s table filled with old teacups and ceramic figurines when I saw it—a small porcelain egg, simple and elegant. It wasn’t flashy, but something about it felt… different. The seller asked for $25. I bargained and walked away with it for $10.
At home, Sam greeted me with his usual teasing. “Found any junk today?” he asked. I held up the egg, proud of my little find. He laughed. “What’s it even for?” I told him it looked like a jewelry box, though the clasp seemed stuck. He turned it over and read the stamp: “Made in Hong Kong.” Then he joked, “Another classic.”
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