Husband Mocks Old Egg Wife Bought at Flea Market, so She Asked Him to Open It

My husband mocked me for buying a little enameled egg at the flea market, but he was in for a big surprise.

First off, I have to tell you I’m a flea market junkie. I can’t help it; I just love the idea of browsing through the flotsam and jetsam of a hundred lives and finding a lost treasure among the discarded trash.

It all started when I was just eleven and would spend the summers with my grandmother in New England. On the weekends, she and I would haunt every flea market or street fair within a hundred miles, searching for “preloved jewels,” as she called her finds.

Even today, as a mother and grandmother, nothing gets my heart pumping like scrounging through a tray of bits and pieces and spotting that glint of something special that tells me I’ve struck gold.

My husband doesn’t understand it at all. Sam is a lovely man—sweet, hardworking—but my need to find treasure in the trash baffles him.

It’s the one thing we clash over: my bringing home “preloved jewels,” or as he calls them, “hoarder junk.” I suppose it would be easier to give up my little hobby, but I honestly don’t want to.

Nothing gives me as much pleasure as heading to a flea market on the weekend with $20 in my pocket, determined to find a Van Gogh for fifty cents. So, no matter how much Sam grumbles about me wasting money and collecting junk, I won’t give it up.

Not that he’s complained about it lately. In fact, this weekend he asked if he could come along with me. Let me tell you how this miracle came about.

About a month ago, I went to a street fair in a nearby town on a Saturday morning. I was tingling with anticipation, and my bargain-hound senses led me to a modest display where a man was selling knickknacks.

There, among the porcelain cups and bisque shepherdesses, was a little porcelain and enamel egg about the size of a real egg. I admit it wasn’t a particularly pretty or unusual piece, but I wanted it.

“How much for the egg?” I asked the man. He eyed me with a calculating look, sizing up my sensible clothes and handbag.

“Just $25, lady, and let me tell you, it’s a bargain!”

I know how the game is played, so I gasped in mock horror and shook my head.

“$25 for a bargain-basement china egg?” I asked. “I’ll give you $5.”

“FIVE DOLLARS!” The man gasped. “For this piece of history? For this tiny treasure? Lady, this is French porcelain.”

“Right!” I countered. “So if I turn it over, I won’t see ‘Made in China’ stamped on the bottom?”

The man hesitated, which told me he wasn’t sure, so I pressed my advantage. “I’ll tell you what—I’ll take it without touching it, for $10.”

He grumbled a bit under his breath, but he wrapped up the egg in some newspaper and took my ten dollars. I was thrilled! I had a feeling about the egg.

I browsed the rest of the fair, but my heart wasn’t in it—I’d found my treasure. So, I headed home, smiling as I walked through the door.

“Hey, hun,” Sam greeted me from the sofa, where he was reading his newspaper. “Found any trash?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact…” I fished the wrapped egg out of my handbag and carefully unveiled it.

Sam eyed it skeptically. “That’s it? That’s what you found?”

“Yes!” I cried. “Isn’t it pretty?”

“What’s it for?” he asked, turning the egg over in his hands.

“I think it was a jewelry box,” I replied. “Do you see the little metal latch and hinges?” I took the egg and tried to open it.

“I think it’s rusted shut,” Sam said, then turned the egg over. “No wonder. Look! Made in Hong Kong! How much did you pay for it?”

I felt myself blush and retrieved the egg. “Ten dollars,” I admitted defensively. “But the man wanted $25.”

Sam laughed scornfully. “You were taken for a ride, AGAIN!”

Tears stung my eyes, but I shook the little egg and heard something shift inside. “There’s something inside!”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s a diamond,” Sam mocked as he took the egg from my hand. With a deft twist of his fingers, he pried the egg open. Nestled inside was a tiny bundle of red silk.

I carefully unwrapped the silk to reveal a pair of earrings. They were exquisite! Of course, I thought they were faux but beautiful copies.

Sam examined one of the earrings closely. The clear center stone was surrounded by a halo of green gems. He breathed on the big stone and gasped.

“Jen, I think these are real!”

“What?” I asked, stunned.

“I saw a documentary about diamonds, and they said a real diamond won’t fog up with your breath. Look!” He breathed on the stone again.

I peered at it. No fog. But I shook my head. “Hun, look at the size of those stones. They’d be worth millions! They’re just good fakes.”

But Sam was adamant. “Let’s go to that jeweler at the mall and ask him to appraise them.”

“Sam, he’ll charge us for that!”

Sam didn’t care, so we drove to the mall, waiting nervously while the jeweler tested the earrings.

“These are diamonds,” the jeweler said, “and 18-carat white gold. The green stones are emeralds. These earrings are probably Art Deco, from the style and workmanship. You’re looking at about three hundred—depending on the quality of the stones, it could be more.”

“Three hundred dollars?” Sam asked.

“Three hundred thousand,” the jeweler replied.

I felt the ground sway under my feet and clutched Sam for support. I’d found a real treasure!

As it turned out, the jeweler was wrong. The earrings sold for three million dollars at auction.

Now, we have a lovely little nest egg in the bank, and the porcelain egg has pride of place on the mantel of our new house.

As for Sam, he’s now an avid antique hound who accompanies me to every flea market and antique fair. We haven’t found that Van Gogh yet, but we have hope!

What can we learn from this story?

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Jen believed she’d find a “preloved jewel,” and she finally did—literally.
Respect other people’s interests. Sam mocked Jen’s passion for flea markets, but she ended up finding a $3 million pair of earrings.
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