I have always had a passion for flea markets. There’s something thrilling about rummaging through odds and ends, searching for that one hidden treasure among the discarded items. This love for treasure hunting began when I was eleven, spending summers with my grandmother in New England. We would explore every flea market and street fair within a hundred miles, searching for what she affectionately called “preloved jewels.”Even now, as a mother and grandmother, nothing excites me more than sifting through trays of miscellaneous items, hoping to find a glimmer of something valuable.

My husband, Sam, however, doesn’t share my enthusiasm. He’s a wonderful man—kind, hardworking—but he just can’t understand my obsession with what he calls “hoarder junk.” Despite this, I refuse to give up my hobby, even though it’s the one thing we argue about. There’s nothing quite like heading to a flea market with a few dollars in my pocket, dreaming of discovering a hidden masterpiece for next to nothing.Recently, something remarkable happened that changed Sam’s perspective entirely. About a month ago, I went to a nearby town’s street fair on a Saturday morning, feeling that familiar sense of excitement. My instincts led me to a modest stall where a man was selling various knickknacks. Among the porcelain cups and figurines