“I think so,” she whispers, and I push her up the last few feet, until she’s standing in my favorite spot. She looks at me and smiles, and now—at the top of this hill overlooking everything—she has officially invaded every part of my life.

OLIVIA

I’m not sure what’s wrong with our real estate agent, but she seems determined to have me out of bed by eight on the weekends, regardless of my work schedule. The last three weeks it’s been a steady stream of home-gawkers milling through our house on weekend mornings. It’s really throwing off my routine, which now includes morning tea. So I’m not surprised when Mom says, “We gotta get out of here,” but I am surprised when she tosses me her car keys and says we’re going to the weekend market on the bluff. My options are limited, so we take our mugs of tea with us and drive the five minutes to Riverton’s little downtown shopping area.

Vendors are set up on the bluff that runs along one side of the town, overlooking the buildings below it and the lake in the distance. The area is split in half by a giant set of brick steps that lead to the shops and restaurants that lie below. On one side of the stairs the market features little tents full of local fruits and veggies, each with a banner displaying the local farm of origin; on the other, antiques fill tables and tents, old pieces of rusted metal and colorful glass spilling out of each little nook.

I stop at the very first booth we see and trade two dollars for a little paper box full of fresh raspberries. Mom picks a berry out of my box and after some grumbling from me about her stealing the food I bought with my hard-earned summer cash, we wander through booths. Antiques really aren’t my thing. Most of the time it just looks like old junk to me. What am I going to do with old farm tools, or eighty-five blue mason jars? Mom spends a lot longer in each booth, moving things around, inspecting items, and wondering out loud what things were used for, and asking the seller if she can’t figure it out. I do a quick walk through each space, and if nothing bright and shiny catches my eye, I move on.

So I’m about four booths ahead of my mom when I see the little pile of teacups. There’s a whole stack of them, all white with different colored designs in pink, yellow, green, and blue, with little trails of gold or silver wrapping round their rims and handles. I pick one up, running my fingers over the floral pattern painted across it. I wave a hand at my mother, directing her to my booth like an air traffic controller.