My husband mocked me for buying a little enameled egg at the flea market—but he was in for a surprise. I’ve always loved flea markets. Since I was eleven, spending summers with my grandmother in New England, I’ve been hooked on finding “preloved jewels” hidden in boxes of old junk. Even now, nothing gets my heart racing like the thrill of a treasure hunt. My husband, Sam, doesn’t get it. To him, it’s all “hoarder junk.” But I refused to quit. One Saturday,
I wandered into a small street fair and spotted a porcelain and enamel egg among a table of odds and ends. It wasn’t anything special at first glance, but I had a gut feeling. “$25,” the seller said. I countered with $5. We settled on $10. When I brought it home, Sam rolled his eyes. “More trash?” he teased. But as I turned the egg over, something rattled inside. With a little effort,
Sam pried it open to reveal a red silk bundle. Inside: a pair of exquisite earrings. Sam tested the stones. “They might be real,” he said, suddenly serious. We took them to a jeweler, who confirmed they were diamonds and emeralds, set in 18-carat white gold—likely Art Deco. “How much?” Sam asked. “Three hundred,” the jeweler said. “Thousand.” We nearly fainted. In the end,
the earrings sold at auction for three million dollars.Now we live comfortably, with a beautiful new home and a healthy bank account. The egg sits proudly on our mantel. And Sam? He never misses a flea market. We’re still looking for that Van Gogh—but hey, you never know.
