Free Bigger than a Bread Box by Laurel Snyder

really rare spoon. A really special spoon. And look, there’s writing.” She read it aloud: “ ‘To Adda. From Harlan. With
love
.’ ” She looked at me and then back down at the spoon. “Wow,” she said. She looked stunned.
    I was almost happy that she was so happy. She seemed so grateful. I was also a little surprised at just
how
happy she was. It didn’t take much with moms, I guess. She was
really
happy.
    “It’s just a spoon,” I said with a shrug. “I remembered you like little spoons.”
    “It’s not just a spoon,” said my mom. “It’s
the
spoon. The perfect spoon. The spoon I’ve always wanted. How did you know?” She turned to Gran. “Did you remember? Did you help her pick this out?”
    Gran shook her head. “Nope. Not a bit. What do I know about spoons?”
    Mom turned back to me and shook the spoon in the air, seeming almost a little angry. “How did you afford this?” she asked me. “This spoon is worth more than—Well, it’s worth a lot!”
    I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t thought that part through. I shifted in my chair.
    “Rebecca?” My mom was now staring at me in anot-entirely-happy way and holding out the spoon. “Just how did you buy this?”
    Then I remembered the junky little store in the village and that silly wine bottle lady. “A junk store!” I said quickly, with relief. “I bought it at a junk store. I didn’t know. I mean, I just thought it was an old spoon, like your other spoons. It hardly cost anything at all. Gran gave me the money.”
    “Wow,” said my mom. “Really?” She smiled again, and the wrinkles disappeared from her forehead. “That’s a lucky find. I mean,
really
lucky. These are rare!”
    I squirmed. I wasn’t a very good liar, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell them about the bread box.
    “Well, then, good job, kiddo!” said Gran, standing up to clear the table. “You outdid me for sure!” She winked.
    “Yay, Babecka!” said Lew.
    My mom looked at me thoughtfully as she ran her thumb around the worn bowl of the spoon. “You know, I’ve been hunting thrift stores and yard sales all my life for one of these. For this very spoon. My grandma Molly collected spoons before me, and I inherited her collection. That’s how I got started. But this was the one she was hunting, and here it is, waiting for me, here all the while. Back in Atlanta, just a few blocks from home. It’s almost like … almost like a good omen. Almost like we were supposed to come home—to find it. Almost like we’re supposed to be here.”
    “Um, yeah, I guess …,” I said. That didn’t soundgood to me at all, but I had to admit that it was interesting to hear Mom talk about her grandmother, the same way it had been interesting to hear Gran talk about my grandfather the day before. Something about being in Gran’s house was bringing these long-gone people to life. Molly? Was she the same Molly from the picture in the attic? Molly with the red dress and the sad eyes? I’d never heard a word about her before. I wished, not for the first time, that my parents talked more about their families. I liked old pictures. I liked stories. I liked other people’s relatives, and if I ever had a chance to meet them, I was pretty sure I’d like my relatives too. I only had Gran. Oh well.
    Later, I was lying in bed in the dark when the door opened. Mom hadn’t tried to tuck me in since we’d gotten to Gran’s house. I hadn’t wanted her to, but I was almost glad to see her dark shape in the doorway, outlined with light. It looked … familiar. I wasn’t ready to talk to her about anything that was going on with me, but if she wanted to thank me for the present again, I guess I’d let her.
    “Rebecca?” she whispered. “You still awake?”
    “Yeah,” I said. I turned to look at her as she walked over. “I’m sorry I forgot your birthday.”
    She sat down on the edge of my bed. “Oh, that’s fine. But thank you, Rebecca, for saying that. I’m