I didn’t go to the flea market expecting anything more than disappointment. It was one of those gray mornings where the sky feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on your shoulders, and every step feels harder than it should. I had just finished a double shift at the diner, my feet aching, my hands smelling faintly of coffee and grease no matter how much I washed them. My son Stan was clinging to my hand, sleepy and quiet in that way toddlers get when they’re tired but trying to be brave.

I had exactly five dollars in my pocket, folded so many times it felt soft as cloth, and I knew it was supposed to stretch to something practical—maybe fruit, maybe bread, maybe nothing at all if I couldn’t find a miracle. Stan’s shoes were too small, rubbing red marks into his heels, but I kept telling myself we could make them last another week.

Everything in my life had become about making things last longer than they were meant to. The flea market smelled like wet asphalt, old paper, and stories that had nowhere else to go. Tables sagged under mismatched items, the kind of objects people only sell when memories get too heavy to keep. I wasn’t browsing with hope; I was just moving, pushing forward because stopping meant thinking.