The owner turned it over again and asked where the rest of the set was.
I told him I had no idea there even was a set.
He stared at me for a second, then carefully pointed to the bottom where he’d scratched away a tiny spot of paint. Underneath wasn’t ceramic at all. It was metal.
“These were cast from bronze,” he said. “Then painted so they looked like cheap hobby pieces.”
I laughed because I honestly thought he was joking.
He wasn’t.
According to him, the figurine I’d brought in was part of a limited collection made by a sculptor whose work had become surprisingly valuable over the years. Not museum-level money, but enough that collectors actively searched for complete sets.
The important words were complete sets.
He asked how many figurines had been in the box.
I thought about it.
Six.
Maybe seven.
The antique dealer immediately told me to go home and find every single one before donating anything.
That weekend I dumped the entire box onto my living-room floor.
The yarn.
The buttons.
The cracked craft supplies.
Everything.
Hidden among all the junk were six more figurines wrapped separately in old newspaper.
Some had chips. One had a broken corner. But they were all there.
A month later I sold the collection through an auction house.
The final amount was more money than my sister had gotten for most of the furniture she fought so hard to keep.
I didn’t call her.
I didn’t brag.
But family news travels fast.
A few weeks later she phoned and casually asked whether I’d ever gone through that craft box.
I said yes.
Then she asked if there had been anything interesting inside.
For the first time since Mom died, I actually smiled during one of our conversations.
“Not really,” I said. “Just some of Mom’s little hobbies.”
Then I hung up before she could ask another question.